


Bluecid Waltz

by of_wilderness



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A Neo-Noir Western but in Space and Gay, Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Bounty Hunters, Dubious Fic Science, M/M, Massive Murder Mystery, Moderately Slow Burn, Space Battles, Wanted Criminals, Warnings May Change, minor drarry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25333213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/of_wilderness/pseuds/of_wilderness
Summary: Tom Riddle, the galaxy’s top “cowboy”/bounty hunter, comes out of his early retirement to hunt the newest threat in the galaxy: a killer targeting important Galactic Council figures.To help him, Tom hires a guy named Harry Potter who may or may not be hiding things.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 55
Kudos: 52





	1. Ataraxia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom wakes up in retirement and goes to bed an idiot in a cowboy hat. By the way, who calls a criminal “Boy”?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a beloved project I’ve shuffled around various fandoms and has now landed with TMRHP! Enjoy.

**CHAPTER 1**

_“And I need a miracle  
To break from this ritual.”_

— Downtown, Allie X

One of the harder things in life Tom had learnt was to separate himself from his previous failures. The beginning of his journey was a lingering phantom on Tom’s shoulder. It was now, four years after he withdrew, that he had begun to relish in the quiet. Quelling the creature inside him that yearned for greatness and danger, Tom took to living aboard a wandering ship.

The ship was named _Ataraxia_ , after the Greek term, and had been commissioned by the Council’s bureau for travel. _Ataraxia_ was a torus, doughnut-like in shape, and equipped for low-budget travel. The spacecraft travelled non-stop from Terra Nova to Chjajalbet and back all-year round. While it didn’t cover very much distance, it was easy for Tom to pretend that he was stranded nowhere. This fantasy kept him company on lonesome nights.

Except for a few items, Tom’s room aboard _Ataraxia_ had remained bare since he first moved onto the ship three years prior. He kept it clean and paid the room fee on time every month when the ship docked either at Terra Nova or at Chjajalbet. When he wasn’t in his room brooding, he was at the Eastside Bar. When he wasn’t at the bar, he was somewhere in the east wing of the ship enjoying some activity—the point being: he could always be found.

His inertia would have made it easy for his enemies to find him but no-one had paid him a visit yet. Only one person bothered to check up on him from time to time and even they hadn’t said a word in many weeks. Tom began to feel forgotten.

A remedy to this boredom was the option of talking with the many strangers that boarded _Ataraxia_. Ultimately, this was an option he never took simply because it was too easy of a solution.

“Awfully foolish of you, ain’t that?” Sanguini, Tom’s favourite bartender, commented once when Tom expressed this preference aloud.

Tom had smiled. He raised his tumbler up to Sanguini, who refilled it, and offered no answer. It was the glint of Tom’s watch as his arm moved that answered for him. A red band slashed across the face of the watch. The object’s symbolic meaning was clear to them both. Bounty hunters were a foolish bunch.

* * *

Tom cupped a hand around his cigarillo as he popped open his lighter to light it. The wind slipped through the cracks between his slender but calloused fingers, tickling, but the tip of cigarillo ignited. Tom’s lips curled, taking a deep inhale, and he let the smoke weigh heavy in his mouth before expelling it in a grey mass into the spacecraft air.

That night, the fake sky was a sparkly mess; it made an interesting contrast from the night before when they had chosen to keep the projection cloudy. The digital stars gleamed prettily but that was all that they were.

He frowned to himself and shook his cigarillo of ash before crushing it into an ashtray. After, he ducked through the bar’s doorway where he weaved his way through the familiars and unfamiliars to the dusty counter.

“A glass of honey whisky please, Sanguini,” Tom said.

He slipped onto a bar stool soundlessly with a practiced sweep of his coat behind him. The stool creaked under his weight and he ignored how the spurs of his boots scraped the stool’s metal column. An unknown hand pushed a tumbler his way after a few heartbeats. Since its contents were a friendly amber, Tom reached to take his beverage.

“You’re new,” he murmured, index swirling over the rim of his tumbler.

His fingers wrapped themselves around the tumbler before he tipped his head up for a sip. This position allowed him to sneak a glance. The new bartender had a charming smile and a tail that flicked lazily before winding around her forearm. The tag on her collar read: Luna.

“Sure am. Just joined recently,” she chirped back.

Her optimism took him aback. Tom placed his tumbler back down without a sound. Eventually he asked, “What year is it?”

Luna pursed her lips, asked him if he meant human years, and told him: 2311. Tom hummed. Time passed no different in or out of the torus; rather, he simply lost track of time aboard _Ataraxia_.

He nursed the rest of his whisky down at a casual pace. Faces came and went around him. The volume of whisky within his tumbler fell and rose. Luna didn’t disturb him but Tom kept an eye on her. Where was Sanguini? Three years Sanguini had manned that bar. Would he come back?

“Tab, please?”

She held up a hand in gesture for him to wait as she rang up his bill then slid a thin, yellowing receipt towards him.

After the briefest of skims at the paper, he forked out a few drachmas. Tom’s watch gleamed under the bar lights as he rose out of his seat. Luna’s eyes shifted up to its bulky form on his wrist.

Tom waited, expecting to hear a comment about the watch but it never came; he found himself surprised. He almost wished she would say something about his job.

“Thank you!” She said instead. “Come again soon.”

* * *

The true salvation from his boredom materialised as a message from his long-time friend. Plastered on the window of his room and blocking his view of the rose garden below was Tom’s salvation.

> **S52493** : _You’re wanted back on the saddle._

For the dramatics of it, Tom did not respond immediately. He had as long as he liked to respond; the message would not disappear.

He mulled it over. Coming out of retirement was something he’d fantasised about endlessly. Still, he wanted to do things on his own terms. Although… how he missed the thrill of the chase. The tides of his stagnant life were already changing.

“Answer. I retired,” Tom said aloud as he grabbed a beaten cigarillo case off his bedstand.

His dusty fingers picked out a cigarillo. He flicked open his zippo lighter with a sure click, bringing the flame to the tip of the fag pursed between his lips. He shut the lighter before tossing it onto his bed. The room lit up with a new message.

> **S52493** : _Name is “Boy.” 14 million drachmas if brought alive; 7 million if dead._

Tom’s eyebrows rose in disbelief despite himself and he took a long drag. Damned he would be if he denied the fact it was the highest bounty he’d seen in all his experience. A bounty that hefty warranted crimes unimaginable. Tom contemplated the possibility of xenocide or some deep grudge. What kind of criminal was named “Boy” though?

“Answer. This is hardly enough information, Sev. What did Boy do? Do you know who’s funding the bounty?”

> **S52493** : _Heavy security on their line. Couldn’t trace the funder. Probably the Council._

He settled himself onto his bed, wrinkling the blankets beneath him. Tom parted his lips, letting the smoke seep into the air along with a few colourful curses while he waited for Severus’ response to his other question.

From his experience, often the bounty funders were more fascinating than the wanted individuals even if it wasn’t his place as a cowboy to inquire about such things. It was part of why he’d left that world—he couldn’t settle solely for hunting down meaningless targets.

> **S52493** : _Tom, Boy has murdered some of the most powerful officials in the Council. They’re top priority right now._

Oh, but this was most interesting as it was. He stared at the screen with bated breath, waiting for the next words to appear.

> **S52493** **:** _Everyone has failed so far; Boss needs you. I’ll hook you up with intel._

Tom’s lips twitched against his will. How interesting. His gaze flickered over to the closet; and his fingers itched, curling in a familiar fashion. He could almost feel his gun back in his hand.

Truly, retirement didn’t suit him. Even so, he hated being a cliché.

* * *

“Your watch—”

Tom paused; and the rim of his tumbler ghosted over his lip. She had the decency to offer an apologetic smile at her sudden remark.

“You’re a cowboy, aren’t you?”

At last. He half-heartedly braced himself for the customary cooing, the gushing, and eye-batting which often came afterwards. If not that, at least a fearful reaction. But she _had_ surprised him before. He wanted to see if she would do so again.

“A cowboy’s life. Kind of boring, isn’t it.” Her words were phrased as a comment, not a question. It made the blood vessels tingle beneath his skin.

The cowboy swirled his whisky in his glass, raising his eyebrows. “After the same chases, yes.”

She reclined on the counter, staring up at him with her owlish blue eyes, asking: “Is that why you retired?”

Luna’s fingers were pointed to the red stripe on his cowboy’s watch. Tom’s gaze remained unwavering. The faded scarlet almost seemed to burn into his skin through the metalwork.

“Or was it because of the money? Not good enough?”

“I’m always amazed at what money can do. Do you chase after money?” he responded instead.

“Not really,” she said honestly. At least, it seemed so. The furry ears on the sides of her head twitched minimally. “I’m only looking for a comfortable life. That’s what a half-breed like me can get.”

She shifted, refilling his tumbler with a signature slant of her wrist and a hazy smile.

“If money can’t buy happiness then why are we all seeking it?” Luna asked him, her tail flicking from side to side before curling around her waist.

Tom kept his eyes trained on her face. Luna’s smile never faltered.

And then as quickly as the tense mood had fallen upon them, it dissipated with the sound of her laughter as she lapsed back into a seamless one-sided conversation with him—because that’s how she was. Someone easy to be with, someone comfortable in her own skin.

* * *

> **S52493** **:** _Nothing in the records linked to a “Boy.” Plenty of criminals with similar murders but nothing matches the rest of Boy’s profile._

Tom sighed to himself, rubbing his temples. A rose petal drifted onto his shoulder. It fell from the bushes suspended above him. He flicked it off his coat with a grimace. He’d never liked roses. In his opinion they were beautiful—but overrated.

Most unfortunately, _Ataraxia_ ’s gardens were laden with them because they were among the easiest flowers for non-Terranean staff to tend. And for this, Tom cursed nature.

“Answer. Send me whatever you have,” Tom said. He itched for the information to be in his hands. My dear Boy, his mind crooned, what are you?

> **S52493** **:** _Can’t send you much right now. Connection’s not stable._

Meaning: their discussions were encrypted and Severus was confident they were safe to talk but he wasn’t confident enough to send files containing important information.

Tom flicked off another petal on his shoulder. “Where shall we rendezvous then?”

> **S52493** **:** _You arrive at Terra Nova’s central station at 0640 tomorrow. Pick up your ship from Hagrid’s and set a course for a Shirley Temple. A cocktail may help._

> **S52493** **:** _Office case. You better not mention anything to anyone if you don’t want to be jumped. No-one knows yet you’re signed on._

Poetic swears tumbled past Tom’s lips. He could easily acquire the resources he needed even with a market job. However, the Council’s involvement made maneuvering within the galaxy both easier and harder. More resources would be available to him now that this bounty was officially registered but it also meant that competition would be cutthroat. With figures that large at stake—Tom’s head started to throb at the possibilities.

He was in no mood for a cocktail now that things were more complicated. Could he do this alone? Then, on a whim, Tom thought of Luna. If he needed an extra hand around his ship, she was an interesting option.

“Answer. Severus? Need a background check on one of the employees here. A Luna at the Eastside Bar. Thank you.”

He stretched as he got to his feet without checking for a reply, kicking the mounds of rose petals around him. It was time to say goodbye to his empty room.

Although the days in which one could ride the plains of Nova freely—like he’d once done—were long gone and it had become second nature for Terra Novians to purchase canned air when they wanted to breathe, the cowboy held no particular love for the luxury these roses represented.

 _Ataraxia_ was not a luxury vessel; but it was a luxury for his kind.

* * *

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow for my own ship. Would you be interested in working as a shiphand? The pay would be considerably better than what you get here,” he told Luna that evening at the bar.

Her smile wavered. “I can’t come,” she said after no deliberation. “But I could send my cousin. Although if he’s not… suitable then I’ll do my best to arrange things.”

The cowboy flexed his jaw and nodded, rolling the prospect over in his mind. A cousin was never simply a cousin. Tom held out his tumbler for her to refill. Besides, he was only considering Luna for her strangely optimistic nature. It was amusing and different. Her chatter was ample distraction when he was bored. Lord knew it would have freshened up the atmosphere in his ship.

But since Tom would be leaving tomorrow—and knowing the nature of his job—then this would likely be the last time he’d see Luna. A strange sense of disappointment filled him. What were the odds her cousin had that spark too?

“Give me a name,” the cowboy said at last.

She faltered. Tom’s eyes narrowed. Something sparked in her expression, something that wasn’t bad per se but unusual.

“Harry Potter.”

* * *

Tom stretched. The sinewy muscles of his back flexed under his smooth skin and rippled as he poised himself. He dove into the water, a blurry figure until he rose to the surface.

The cowboy maintained a good pace as he crossed the pool with sure strokes. Each time he reached the end he tumbled and pushed himself off the wall of the pool before resuming his front crawl.

From afar, a couple of giggling individuals admired his physique. They sat on the balcony of their room and had made it a habit to do so every time they noticed Tom in _Ataraxia_ ’s swimming pool.

A clean fifty laps later Tom lifted himself out of the crystalline water. He caught a glance of the time on his way back to his room for a shower and narrowed his eyes. Only two hours left before docking.

In his room, he packed his few clothes and donned his travel outfit. He stopped in front of the floor-length mirror, hands clutching his trench coat uneasily. The coat fit him like a worn glove, malleable in all the right places, but today its purpose would be different from the previous days.

Tom pressed a kiss to the lapel. “Together, Nagini,” he said softly before sliding his coat on with a flourish.

He slung his satchels around him and gave his grey room one last sweeping gaze before he left. The spacecraft would soon arrive at Terra Nova’s terminal.

Severus messaged Tom back with some information about Luna and her cousin. He had sent it while Tom was swimming so the cowboy took his time now to check his friend’s messages. The information was extremely basic but Tom was aware Severus was limited by the monitored lines of _Ataraxia_ ’s communication system. Even so, it was enough to conclude—for now—that Harry Potter was not an immediate threat.

As soon as Tom could fix his watch on Terra Nova he would be able to speak freely with Severus. The little communication device _Ataraxia_ lent him all these years would finally return to the ship, to be used by another passenger. One surely less attractive than himself, Tom mused.

At long last, _Ataraxia_ ’s fake sky dissolved to reveal the words Tom had been waiting for: _ARRIVED AT TERRA NOVA. TIME: 0640. TEMPERATURE: 28°C. SHUTTLES DEPARTING FOR TERRA NOVA SHIP TERMINAL FROM WEST HANGAR._

* * *

Tom’s shuttle arrived at Terra Nova’s central ship terminal with an almost soundless hiss. The straps of his bags dug into his coat and he welcomed the feeling, inhaling a final breath of the stale and sterile shuttle air as the door slowly slid open.

“Medical check! Down this way,” shouted two men, ushering everyone exiting from the shuttle along a marked path.

One of the men stopped Tom but Tom waved him away. “We were sprayed down on the ship and the shuttle,” Tom told him.

“Always good to be safe. But if you say so. Show me your ID.”

Tom handed over his passport, taking it back once the man looked it over. He shuddered as his fingers brushed over the stranger’s but he forced a smile on his face.

“Welcome back home. Nice photo you have there.”

His smile strained. “Thank you; I was 18.”

“Been a while then. Do you have a working mask? Put it on.”

As Tom made his way out of the terminal, he watched how the people bustled around him with their faces completely covered and their feet skittering on the concrete. If one didn’t know that there were people under the ugly masks one could mistake them for large bees.

Tom’s own mask was equipped with the best filters and converters Terra Novian devices had to offer—although he hadn’t really checked the market in four years. Regardless, the design dug into his cheekbones and left the eyes bare. Even with the filter mask on he kept his breaths shallow. The notorious pollution that lingered in Nova’s atmosphere was still years from being eradicated.

On the bigger streets, the cowboy hailed a cyclops—a bicycle with a covered passenger trailer—to take him to Rubeus Hagrid’s repair shop. After some haggling, Tom climbed into his seat behind the driver’s bicycle. He never liked cyclopses because of their open nature but he couldn’t deny that they were ridiculously fast and conveniently cheap. A fact constantly proven true, much to Tom’s dismay.

The trip through the city whizzed by and before long, his cyclops dragged to a stop in front of Hagrid’s tiny store door. After a few more quick words and an exchange of money, resulting in a toothless grin and throaty cough from the driver, Tom soon found himself inside.

Upon first sight, Hagrid seemed to have shrunk since the last time Tom had seen him. His frame appeared small and his grim expression seemed to accentuate the angles of his face. This could not be further from the truth. Hagrid was a tall, broad man, easily over two metres tall, who could barely fit at his tiny work table.

Tom kicked a bucket near him and watched as it tipped over, spreading spare parts all over the place. Hagrid glanced up at the commotion and his face scrunched up when he spotted the culprit behind the mess.

“Ah. Tom,” his friend said emotionlessly.

“You’re looking good, Hagrid.”

The mechanic grunted as he got up, his loose clothing swaying with the movement, and flashed Tom a small smile. As ever, there was grease smeared on his face and his large hands clutched a filthy rag.

Hagrid sighed, “C’mere, yeh twat.” He extended his arms to engulf Tom in a crushing hug. “I’m mad at yeh. You vanish an’ then yeh show up years later askin’ me to fix yer ship. Nothin’ else.”

“Does this mean you may have sabotaged my ship as an act of revenge?” Tom asked with a wry grin.

His question made Hagrid bristle visibly. “I love yer ship even more than yeh do, so shut up.” Under his breath, Hagrid muttered. “’Specially considerin’ the number of times she’s had to be repaired.”

Despite the remark, there was no ill will behind his words. Hagrid grabbed Tom, lugging him into a massive warehouse. Ships and various hunks of metal sprawled over the extensive floors. And there she was in the midst of it all: The _Basilisk_. She had been the ship of Tom’s dreams as a child and when he had finally been able to acquire her, she did not disappoint.

The grip his friend, and mechanic, had on his shoulder loosened. As Tom made his way up to the ship, his tiredness dripped away. The gleam of her metal sang to his heart. She was Tom’s pride. A sleek, robust vessel that had cost him a couple of thousand drachmas. Her height reached ten metres and her wing-span easily another thirty. In comparison to other ships, she was small. But she flew well and had features Tom couldn’t find elsewhere.

“I knew yeh ne’er really retired, Tom,” Hagrid said softly, “’S why I’ve bin keepin’ her in good shape all these years.”

Tom caressed her hull and listened to the sound of his skin brushing over her metalwork. “You’re a loyal friend, Hagrid,” he said.

“Maybe a little bit too much sometimes, eh? Now go out there an’ do yer bounty business an’ don’ come back fer a long while.” Hagrid grumbled. “Whole world knows trouble follows yeh like a thistle on fur.”

Tom stopped to lean against the _Basilisk_ and raised an eyebrow at the mechanic’s comment. It was true. He’d never been a quiet child after all. “Thank you again, Hagrid,” was all Tom answered with. He had a long journey ahead of him.

Hagrid sent him off with assurances that Tom would find _Basilisk_ ready to fly at the terminal with all the right paperwork for his departure.

With time to kill, Tom headed to the local office for cowboys. As he waited in the office to talk to one of the help, two buggy-looking fellows were having a loud exchange and what could be done but listen? So, Tom did.

“I’m looking at a multimillion bounty. You ever heard of something like that?” one of them rasped to the other. “Fucking huge, man.”

His friend nodded emphatically. “I heard. It’s all the talk of these parts of the galaxy. Boy this! Boy that! They say Boy’s some crazy murderer. What kinda shit-ass name is Boy? If I were him, that’d be the reason I’d kill. Fuck. Names like that drive me wild.”

The fellow spat on the ground and wiped his mouth, hands flopping back to his sides like a fish. Tom recoiled, thankful that his mask obscured his face. This was the type of competition he was facing?

“Marvolo Gaunt,” a middle-aged lady called, leaning precariously on her office door.

Tom perked up, raising his hand. He followed her into her room and she swung in after him, door slamming surely. She told him to sit down and feel free to take candy if he wanted—her long fingers tapping the coloured bowl noisily.

She sniffed. “Looking for a new watch, huh? Show me your old one. Hmm. What an old model you have there, sweetheart.” She tapped away at her devices. “Let’s get a nice new one without that red retirement band, shall we?”

“I’d like it if were on the plainer side,” Tom said.

“Sure, honeybunch.” Silence. “What list is your case on? Market? Office?”

“Office. Boy.”

The lady hummed. “You too? Everyone seems to be going for that one. Good luck, son.”

She asked if he wanted Council records. Tom was about to reject her proposal when he noticed she had already stuck him onto the list with hundreds of other bounty hunters. He kept his mouth shut. With such a list, no-one would receive the records since the Council took people in chronological order. Fortunately for him, Tom had a few friends at the Council archives. Unfortunately, this meant another pit stop. Annoyance filled him.

The lady scrolled through his file, muttering to herself, and Tom knew exactly the moment when she saw the credit he had accumulated in the system. Her eyes bulged out of her sockets and her hands shook.

“Oh my…” She mumbled to herself. “You’re Number One.”

She switched back to the request list for the Council records and shifted him all the way up to the first slot—an unnecessary action but he allowed it—and began tapping away quickly to finish the rest of his paperwork.

Done, she stood up and unlocked a gleaming cabinet behind her, soon placing an elegant grey watch with emerald inlays in front of him gingerly.

Tom spared one look at it. Inwardly, he sighed. He straightened up, looking her dead in the eye. “Madame, I’m sorry, but do you have any simpler watches?”

* * *

“Tom, I’m securing your watch now,” Severus said. His voice sounded sour even filtered through the watch’s speakers. “Don’t say a word.”

Severus vanished and Tom was left to listen to the quiet buzz of the call for what seemed like eons. Tom exhaled heavily, lifting his mask to light a cigar. The woman beside him shot a glare for the smoke but he shone a sweet smile her way.

Eventually the call reconnected with a soft crackle.

“Are you done?” Tom asked.

“Yes.”

Eagerly, the cowboy brought his watch closer to his mouth. “What did you find out about the bounty funder?”

“I’ve traced the bounty back to the Council. They were very careful to cover their tracks.”

Despite Severus’ best efforts to conceal it, a touch of smugness could still be detected in his voice. Tom smiled to himself. Any other time, he would have teased Severus but, for now, he let his friend have his moment.

It made sense, considering Boy’s high-profile victims, for the Council to be involved. Alternatively, this could also all be a ploy. Once before on a bounty Tom collected, Tom’s target turned out to be a false identity created by a band of Council officials. Tom got his money. However, he still wasn’t willing to forget and forgive the Council.

“One would think that the Council would have been more transparent to gain favour with the victims. Although I’ll give them credit. Secrecy allows for private negotiations,” Tom said. “The Council usually never interferes with our section.”

Too bad we can’t meddle in their politics, Tom finished in his mind. He always fancied himself a decent speaker and imagined an illustrious career for him in politics. Of course, that had been destroyed with his first mistake.

“Riveting… but focus, Tom. Now, remember, I’ve asked Bellatrix to compile a file for you. As much as you hate it, you will need to visit her as soon as possible and pick it up,” Severus hissed, “I have that information you asked for on Harry Potter. You had better pay attention because I won’t repeat what I’ll say twice.”

A holographic model of Harry Potter’s visage projected itself from Tom’s watch. It spun slowly, revealing a young man in his early twenties. Rather attractive. Tom voiced this aloud. Severus disagreed.

“Go ahead, Severus.”

Harry Potter, Severus recited, born July 31st, 2288 on Terra Via. Sex: Male. Gender: Male. Aged 23 and _younger than you, Tom_. Mother a human, father a mix.

“But is he truly related to Luna, the bartender at Eastside Bar?” Tom interrupted. He’d nearly forgotten about her. Funny that.

Severus snapped: “Yes, he is, now let me finish.”

Tom hummed in assent, waving a hand absently. After that, the facts blurred together within Tom’s mind as they drifted into his ears. He tapped his cigar on the rim of an ashtray with an absentminded cluck. Then, a word stuck out that piqued his interest again—“different.”

“Harry Potter found out he had a special affinity for languages and hoped to find a job on Terra Nova after completing a translating course on Via. Average human capacity for languages is usually only a handful; say, maximum seven fluently if people try, with an ability to understand partially more. However, he is recorded to be proficient in nine hundred and eighty-five languages to date, an amount previously unprecedented even among the most proficient polyglots of the galaxy.

“So I suppose,” Severus started again after a brief pause, “He’s special enough for you to be satisfied.”

Tom stared in silence at his watch. After a couple of heartbeats, he said: “You’re right.”

S52493 snorted. “Well, good luck, cowboy.”

With that, the connection cut and the static was no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working on this in tandem with a WW2 fic of tomarry growing up together. The planning of this fic is done, it just needs to be word-gurgitated into existence!
> 
> Next up: Tom meets Harry.


	2. The Basilisk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting with Harry is arranged and Tom gets a headache from visiting Bellatrix.

**CHAPTER 2**

_“4 AM, 4 AM, falling down again  
Unraveling”_

— 4ÆM, Grimes

Tom contacted Harry Potter, who agreed to meet him at Terra Nova’s terminal the Sunday after. So, on Sunday, Tom made sure he was up early and planted himself on a bench between the lane where his ship was docked and the medical office. It was a good distance for him to be able to spot Harry Potter from afar but also close enough to the _Basilisk_ in case Tom needed to quickly grab something.

Harry Potter’s messy head eventually appeared through the medical office door. Tom surveyed his translator-to-be. As expected, Luna’s cousin was dishevelled from the check-up and sterilising sprays but the man easily resembled the 3D scan from his file.

Tom had imagined someone scruffier, but Harry Potter was dressed in a flattering deep red which made his green eyes pop even behind thick spectacles. The glasses would have to go, Tom noted. He wouldn’t have his translator bumbling after him like Velma from Scooby-Doo.

Sighing, Tom stood up. He smoothened out his clothes and lifted a hand above the thin crowd. Harry Potter looked around, lost, for a few agonising seconds before he caught sight of Tom.

“Are you Marvolo Gaunt?” Harry Potter called out once close to the cowboy. Upon receiving a nod, the man smiled and waved cheerily. “I’m Harry Potter.”

“Pleasure. Luna has told me about you,” Tom answered. It was almost the truth. She had mentioned him briefly but hadn't given Tom any more information than basics regarding Harry.

 _He’s my cousin_ , she’d said, and _I don’t know what kind of accompaniment you’re searching for but he’s a translator—not Council certified but still skilled_. She then made a miniscule pause before adding: _More whisky?_ After which, she’d refused to disclose more detail.

Yet now there was amusement in the cousin’s eyes as if he knew exactly what Tom was thinking. Harry Potter replied, “Good things I hope, Mr Gaunt. So what kind of work do you need me for?”

Marvolo Gaunt was the name of Tom’s maternal grandfather, a disgusting man.

“Please, call me Tom,” Tom said. He smiled demurely. “I travel a lot. I need a second hand on-board my ship and someone to help me as I only speak three languages. Luna didn’t inform you?”

They’d begun moving towards Tom’s ship. Tom was leading, of course, with Harry Potter in step beside him. They were not quite at eye level with each other as Tom had to look down slightly when speaking to the other man. Harry’s file had stated a height of 175 centimetres.

Harry stopped and Tom with him. “Then feel free to call me Harry. Luna did tell me but I wanted to check with you. Small problem is: I’m primarily trained as a translator and am a good one. But I can also be your second hand and interpreter. I can be whatever I need to be.”

It endeared Tom how Harry was able to keep his head high, confident. Now, the cowboy only hoped his translator’s abilities were up to par with his promises. Tom turned away, resuming their leisurely stroll towards the _Basilisk_.

“Do you travel well, Harry? How many languages do you speak?”

“A little under a thousand languages, I’d say. And I like to think I’m a good traveler. I’ve travelled a decent amount,” the cousin chirped back.

Impressive. Of course, Tom knew all that already from Severus. As part of the show, however, Tom made a point to raise his eyebrows in believable surprise.

“What a repertoire,” he told his new translator, “I look forward to working with you.”

With this informal interview over, Harry relaxed marginally. His posture didn’t change much from the guarded stance he had but the tension from his shoulders eased. They both understood only the first step of the process was done; if this work relationship were to work, Harry would need to prove himself. What would stop Tom from tossing Harry off the _Basilisk_ if the translator could not do his job?

The duo stopped in the shadow of Tom’s ship as her form towered over them. An untrained eye would not see past the age of the craft and would not see her careful angles and beautiful craftsmanship. It was not bias that Tom formed his beliefs about the capabilities of his ship, it was experience. Tom eyed Harry for his reaction.

Harry made a sound. “She looks like a good vessel.”

Tom glanced away. “Indeed.” He made no move as Harry stepped closer to admire the hull’s metal. “What form of employment would be suitable for you?” Tom asked. The topic of a contract made Harry turn back to Tom.

“I’m unlicensed.”

No contract then. That suited the cowboy just fine. Tom slipped his hands into his pockets and moved closer to the other man, peering down at him. “My dear friend,” he said, “How much can I offer you then?”

Harry’s jaw tightened before he responded, “800 drachmas a month.”

Ambitious. “600.”

The cool hangar air around them was still but it might as well have been electrified. The translator changed his position, leaning in closer. The blood in Tom’s veins rushed—it was arousal in the most clinical sense. Pure stimulation.

“I know you’re looking at a large bounty. 750. I’ll charge nothing if no bounty and I’ll pay my own trip back,” Harry said. He spoke surely, with no trace of nervousness in his voice.

Tom studied him carefully. “700. If you do not live up to expectations, you make your own way home as agreed.”

After all, Tom Riddle fancied himself a generous man.

* * *

After the initial tour, they did not speak much. Harry was assigned a cabin on the opposite side of the ship from Tom’s own. While the man unpacked, Tom went to the cockpit.

Catching a glimpse of the time, Tom opened up the news. He suspected they would have something on the string of deaths in the Council. He was right.

“— _is the Galactic News Broadcast, GNB, live with her Excellency the Evlistian ambassador Karin de Vos on the passing of Evlisti’s Global Library Director. Ambassador.”_

_“Yes, in light of recent events, function of the library has been paused until the Council finishes investigations. There is talk to appoint Otto, the library’s, ah, second-in-charge, but other possible candidates are in consideration. Until further notice, traffic to Evlisti is restricted.”_

_“How unfortunate! Evlisti’s library was considered the largest public archive in the galaxy apart from the Council’s collection—“_

Tom sent a quick message to Severus to update him on the proceedings of the hire with an ear half-listening to the droning voices from the screen.

_“It is unfortunate. Evlistians are pacifists by nature. Such an event—“_

_“But do you, your Excellency, believe the death could be a murder?”_

_“Until the Council comes back with official reports, it is difficult to say.”_

The reporter onscreen leaned forward eagerly. _“So what you’re saying is—“_

Severus’ voice cut through the audio with a buzz.

“Tom, I have the reports on the Evlistian Director. Far better than that drivel you were watching just now. Why do you insist on watching GNB?”

“Always good to know what they tell the masses,” Tom answered easily.

He lounged in his chair, waiting for the transfer symbol to appear on his screen. Tom straightened up as soon as it did to transfer the files onto his local network before opening them. Instead of text, gibberish filled the screen. Severus’ code was jarring to his eyes; it felt like too long since he’d last had to read it. Luckily, his friend had taken pity on him and simplified where possible.

Tom paused in his reading and skimmed over another document. “Severus. Have you reviewed the security footage?”

“Yes. It hasn’t been doctored. It shows the director’s wife weeping beside him. Not much else.”

In the autopsy, the cause of death was revealed to be an old strain of the Terranean bubonic plague—not an impossible case but very unusual. While body modifiers and sterilisation procedures were typically employed to avoid such cases, sometimes things managed to bypass precaution. Exposure could be deadly to aliens. The Director’s had been a quick death and no other symptoms of any illness were displayed.

However, exposure to the bacterium could have occurred at any time in any way. Someone the Director met could have caught the disease visiting a Terranean planet or perhaps the culprit could be as simple as an infected object.

Glancing through the pages of the Council’s comments, Tom garnered that the investigative team was pronouncing nothing out of the ordinary. Even so, the reports were partial to the idea of the true perpetrator of the Evlistian Director’s death being Boy. Yet, what in space dictated this was a murder by Boy?

* * *

Tom dropped a file onto the dinner table. It connected with a loud thwack and Harry startled, although minimally.

“What's this?” Harry asked, already thumbing the papers.

The cowboy tilted his head, face twisted in disbelief. “It's your first task as my translator.” He continued, “These are transcripts from the interviews conducted with people possibly linked to my target.”

Although Tom didn't mention that the papers were in fact from the Evlistian director's case, he expected Harry would figure it out himself. The less Tom shared, the better for the both of them, but the way Harry was eyeing the file told all Tom he needed to know about Harry's knowledge of the Evlistian language.

“What sort of format would you like me to use when translating? I can translate or transcribe.”

“Explain.”

Harry tapped a paragraph halfway down the first page. “Here, the speaker uses a figure of speech that doesn't exist in English. I can, of course, translate literally or I could choose to replace the colloquialism with an English equivalent.”

A pleased feeling wound its way through Tom's chest. He did his best not to express it outwardly but the cowboy was very much impressed already with his translator's handling of the task. He trusted Harry not to betray his confidence in his abilities. Tom had a knack for being able to read people.

“Both.”

Harry's eyes darted quickly as he read the transcript and he pursed his lips. “Do you need this by a certain time?” he asked. “I can bring a proofread copy by evening.”

By this, Tom understood Harry could finish faster if needed. That was convenient. It didn't really matter to Tom when they would be finished. This task was a relatively unnecessary one; Tom already had translations of all the interviews. He was more curious to see if a second interpretation would reveal things lost in the first translation. In addition, this would keep Harry Potter occupied for the time being.

“Seven o'clock will be fine” Tom paused. “I suppose it's about time I tell you where we are headed first. Do you know _Vangelis_?”

The other man made an “ah” sound. “Are you going to try to ask Bellatrix for information?”

I won't have to try, Tom thought to himself. But instead of responding to Harry's question, Tom decided to ask instead, “Have you ever looked at the Cowboy rankings?”

His voice conveyed his casual arrogance, if his posture hadn't already done so. Tom was reclining precariously in the biofiber dining chair, with both hands resting on the table, and he didn't seem at all concerned that he was at the risk of toppling over any second. But he wouldn't. In this way Harry already had a vague idea of what the rankings looked like despite never having seen them.

“You're at the top,” Harry stated.

“I'm Number One.”

The translator's silence was taken by Tom as what it was: a lack of reaction because of a lack of understanding. Number One generally meant good things in any context but here Harry didn't know the benefits of being Number One.

Of course, the rank was now more of a fancy title to Tom than of real use. It did not mean much. Tom voiced this aloud. Harry’s green eyes were full of doubt.

The translator did not ask any further questions before he tucked the file under his arm. “I will see you tonight at dinner,” he said, “And I’ll have the translation ready for you.”

* * *

Over the next days, Harry’s tasks followed a similar vein. Dinners onboard the _Basilisk_ took a new meaning: the transfer of Harry’s work to Tom’s hands. Tom grew more frustrated with the case Boy presented him. Revelations from Harry’s translations were fewer than Tom would have liked. Still, they helped.

It was otherwise quiet on the ship. Tom found that Harry proved to be quite discreet with his presence and, more often than not, Tom wondered what Harry was doing in his free time.

When the cowboy woke up in the morning, Harry would already be preparing breakfast for himself. Tom seldom met people who were earlier risers than he was. So it was a strange thing for him to lay in his bunk, staring at the metal ceiling of his room, and to hear the clinks and clanks Harry caused in _Basilisk_ ’s kitchen through the monitor on the wall opposite to his bunk.

“Good morning, cowboy,” Harry murmured.

Tom nodded in greeting to Harry, pace brisk. He set himself to making himself a bowl of oats and was not surprised when he turned to see his translator rummaging through Tom’s liquor cabinet.

“Honey whisky?”

Plopping onto the sofa, Tom hummed his agreement with Harry’s query. Harry clicked his tongue with a shake of his head as he pulled out the offending drink.

“It’s bad for your teeth, Tom. Let alone for your liver.”

The cowboy grunted. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Harry knew better than to argue when it came to Tom’s drinking habits. He dropped a bottle and two stacked glasses on the table. After popping the bottle open, he poured out two glasses.

A hand plucked one of the glasses and turned it over in rough fingers before its contents were gulped down swiftly. “We’ll be stopping over at _Vangelis_ ,” Tom said, “Our arrival time should be tonight.”

Harry’s head jerked up from his breakfast. He frowned. “For information, right?” Harry took the other glass as his own, raising it to the light. “A breakfast toast that we may find what you’re looking for then,” he announced.

 _I hope so_ , the cowboy thought grimly. There had been no sign of activity from Boy for the last two months and counting. He reached to pour himself more whisky. But he was pleased he hadn’t needed to explain himself to Harry as to why they were headed to _Vangelis._

“What do you do with your free time, Harry?” Tom asked.

* * *

Everyone knew that _Vangelis_ was the best nightclub complex in the galaxy, owned by the notorious giantess Bellatrix Lestrange; and because of its reputation, it was ruthless in how it operated. It was a sprawling system of smaller clubs, hotels, bars, brothels, and strip clubs that were connected with star-bridges—that way if in a unit any trouble arose, the unit could (and would) be forcefully detached from the complex and left behind.

Bellatrix herself was equally infamous. Many stories surrounding _Vangelis_ ’ owner existed. Some said that she had hundreds of husbands (all murdered), some said that she had fought her way to the top with her teeth and charms, but everyone agreed that she was not to be trifled with.

“Sex, party, and religion attract danger,” she was known for saying.

Thus, the sheer size of her empire practically guaranteed that nothing in the galaxy went unnoticed by her, which meant: if one sought knowledge, there was a _very_ high chance she had what you needed—which consequently also meant that _Vangelis_ was exactly where Tom had been sent.

Bellatrix hated landing herself in sticky situations. Tom hated landing in her club.

The _Basilisk_ docked at one of the outer units upon their arrival at _Vangelis_. It had taken a while to secure a parking space and there was a close run-in with annoying couple in another ship—normally Tom would have informed Bellatrix of his arrival beforehand and she would have provided him with a spot. This time, the cowboy had chosen not to take advantage of Bellatrix’s peculiar affection for him.

With a deep crease between his eyebrows, the cowboy beckoned Harry to follow him as he made his way through the passageways. He didn’t want to lose Harry, who was dressed so plainly he might as well as have been on a Terra Novian farm. Harry walked silently beside him and occasionally glanced at him. The way to the Central unit felt too long.

“Have you been here before?” Tom posited, breaking the silence between them.

Harry looked his way with a nod. “Once. Looking for work.”

Odd thing to look for jobs in _Vangelis_ but Tom supposed there were stranger career choices. His own had been one of the strangest indeed.

“So then you know not to accept random drinks.”

Harry’s lips quirked. He said, “I’m a stranger, not a virgin.”

The area changed as soon as they entered _Vangelis’_ hub. Immediately, they were assaulted with hundreds of different scents. Lights thrummed and shone over the space, packed with people. Each of them picked up a drink at the bar—Harry a cocktail, Tom his honey whisky.

Harry turned away after one last searching gaze. “Who are we looking for?”

“Bellatrix.”

Recognition flickered in his eyes. “Then we might as well ask the servancy bots to pass a message. She’s too high up to be loitering in the crowd.”

Tom clicked his tongue and shook his head. “She knows I’m coming.”

“Oh, Tom.” Harry tittered. “With that attitude, you’re getting nowhere.”

Having said that, the translator smoothly snagged a bot by the arm. It wheeled back to face them after a second or two spent in confused clacking, bowing in greeting.

“Hello, sirs. How may we help you?” the bot asked in a voice both androgynous and tinny.

“Could you tell Bellatrix that a ‘Marvolo Gaunt’ is here to see her?” Harry requested.

It released a series of cheery sounds of affirmation before spinning off into the mess of the hub. They watched the bot go before employee turned to employer. Tom gave a nod in thanks to Harry, who smiled in return with a single pat to his upper arm before also trailing away.

Thus, Tom found himself alone even if for only a little while. The cowboy knew instantly when Bellatrix arrived.

All the seats within a ten-meter radius of him suddenly quietened. Shadowy shapes filled the silence on the loveseats as Bellatrix’s massive figure sashayed up to him, easily towering him. Nonetheless the nearer she came, the more her body shrank until his head barely reached her shoulders. He was tall by human standards but she was a giantess, and no human could compare with that.

Her signature furs glistened around her, dwarfed by her presence despite the enormous size of the pelts. The sight of the plush fur made Tom’s skin crawl.

“Salut, mon cher,” she greeted him, bending over to peck both his cheeks.

Bellatrix’s endearment made his eye twitch and he offered her a strained smile. “Always a pleasure to be back.”

“Why, you’re unceasingly polite.” The giantess smiled her amiable smile and ran her long nails over her voluptuous fur coat. “Do you like it, Tom? They’re East-Maldon Seal.”

“I’ve heard those were endangered,” Tom said.

She hardly seemed bothered by his answer, remarking, “How _you_ to know about that.”

Her red lips twisted cruelly. Bellatrix leaned over towards him, black fabric stretching over her figure and sparkling where the saloon lights hit her curves. Her bosom brushed against the fluorescent counter.

“Lovely of Severus to send you here again,” she purred, “This round’s prime criminal must have quite the price on their neck for you to come out of retirement.”

Tom spared her a smile that betrayed nothing. Bellatrix could have all the information on Tom she wanted but she still did not comprehend his _modus operandi_. This knowledge soothed his annoyance with the task at hand.

The giantess plucked an iridescent file from one of her bots to lay it out on the counter between them. Fabric-like paper shimmered as Bellatrix dragged her long nails over the file, prying the pages apart. Although each page turned appeared to be as blank as the last—only colorful swirls could be seen—the way she handled the file suggested its pricelessness.

“This request was a headache. Do you know how many boys there are?” Her heavy eyelashes fluttered as she spoke and her red lips were bunched up in a pout. “I had the information sorted by relevance. There’s a particularly interesting prophecy about a ‘boy-who-lived’ from Gryffindor.”

Bellatrix waited for him to say something before tutting when he didn’t.

“And because I _adore_ you, I included a list of cowboys who are also on the Boy bounty that you should look out for. Carrow is there.”

He snuck a peek towards the file and a sliver of disappointment bloomed in his chest when he could still see nothing on its glossy pages. “Your price?” he asked.

Her fingernails scratched a serpentine motif on the bioglass. “I’ll give you a discount if you give me a kiss, little Tommy. For old times’ sake.”

Tom barked out a laugh but remained otherwise motionless. “No thanks,” he said curtly.

Bellatrix acquiesced, snapping the file closed; but when she opened her mouth again, her words came out in Tom’s childhood tongue. Each familiar syllable scratched at his eardrums as its sweet sounds didn’t match the filthy things the giantess said.

The area around them seemed to chill as Tom’s blood boiled. His eyes narrowed with each detail that left her lips like a never-ending river.

“Do we have a deal?” she asked after what felt like an eternity.

Teeth gritted. The cowboy could feel his neck panging from the tension in his shoulders. He refused to move his eyes away from her pitying ones.

“Do we have a deal?” Bellatrix repeated, expression softening but her heart naught. When Tom did not reply, she smiled. “Wonderful. I do love doing business with you; you always hate me so.”

Bellatrix’s reptilian pupils contracted as she pulled back, throwing an order to a servant over her shoulder, and tightened her fur sash: “Bring this dashing cowboy his check.”

As her servancy bots clacked around her, Bellatrix’s eyes never wavered from his.

“One thing I can tell you about him for free is that he kills out of boredom, Tom,” she sighed. “And he’s not meant to exist so you should try to be careful around him.”

“Certain you’re not speaking about yourself?” he asked back.

Bellatrix smiled, a rosy hue gracing her cheeks, and said, “Why, you flatter me.”

Her eyes landed on something behind Tom for a second before she gathered her furs as she sped away from him and returned to her original size. The music swelled up again and the shadow people on the couches disappeared. The file beckoned him from the table.

* * *

Two minutes and a half later, Harry’s hand curled around Tom’s shoulder, soft and reassuring. The cowboy tilted his head towards his partner.

“There you are,” Tom said with an easy smile.

Gone were Harry’s drab brown cargo pants and simple shirt—they were replaced instead with a sheer, fluorescent dress shirt with flowy ruffles around the collar and cuffs, and a leather jacket thrown on top that was embroidered with real scales. When Tom’s eyes trailed lower, he was met with the sight of bare skin from which he darted his gaze away.

“Did it go well?” his translator murmured near his ear over the sound of booming music.

The file prickled from where it was pressed flat against Tom’s spine. He gave Harry a nod, who smiled back.

“Where do you plan to—”

“Where were you?” Tom interrupted.

Harry blinked at the abrupt question, eyebrows furrowing in brief surprise, before his face smoothed out into an indifferent look. “Some girls from Genesis spotted me,” he responded.

Instantly, Tom understood. Genesis globals were widely recognized for caring deeply about their looks and for spending copious amounts of time and money enhancing their appearances. They must have spotted Harry and refused to let him leave unless he let them give him a makeover. Admittedly like this, Harry looked as if he lived and breathed the flashy club lifestyle most people experienced onboard _Vangelis_. From the holographic eyelash extensions to the subtle body varnish, the man was a stunner. Tom almost felt underdressed.

“We’ll be staying here a short while to refuel and have a decent meal.” At his employee’s puzzled expression, Tom elaborated: “Our next destination will be further away. Until then, we’ll restock here. You’ve been lucky you haven’t done shipwork until now.”

Harry scratched his neck, his green eyes sceptical. “You waited until I got dressed up nicely to ask me to do shipwork?”

Tom finished off his drink and set it down on the nearest stool. “A coincidence but you look good. Shall we?”

The neon signs around them glowed as they hopped from hotel to hotel around Vangelis, each one more fanciful than the previous. At long last, the pair stopped at ‘The Toasty Wand’ when Harry begged Tom to stop being so picky. The cowboy couldn’t help it—his mood always dropped after speaking to Bellatrix.

The translator haggled with the owner for a decent fare while the other man watched the gurgling exchange with all the signs of a clueless party. Then, finally, Harry shifted towards Tom with a sparkle in his eyes and two keycards. “Our lovely host has kindly given us access to his best suites,” he announced with a winning smile the green alien’s way.

The owner’s cheeks (Tom was uncertain if those were cheeks) swelled and changed a sickly shade of blue as foreign words bubbled out its snout. Tom forced a smile on his own face in return. The owner’s eyes blinked before it slid away from the two of them.

“That was their equivalent of a smile,” Harry said softly, handing a keycard to the uptight cowboy. “You should relax. You’re really dampening the atmosphere.”

“There’s so much that needs to be done,” was all Tom managed to explain lamely. Upon receiving a kindly smile from Harry he felt was insincere, he added, “You have until tomorrow evening off. I’ll be busy.”

His coat fluttered loudly behind him as he turned away and stepped into a lift. He closed his eyes, his head hurting. Indeed, there was so much to be done.

* * *

Ice clinked noisily as it was dropped into a tumbler. Whisky soon followed, sloshing, and filled the cracks between the ice and glass. A body collided with the soft jelly of a sofa before a glowing file was dropped onto the bioglass table. It was in this order that Tom set up his station in his suite.

His fingertips trailed along the file’s phosphorescent paper, tingling upon contact. With bated breath, he flipped it open. And there it was—all the information Tom had wanted was in his hands in black lettering that peered back at him. His heart sped up in his chest, something that hadn’t happened in so long regarding a case, and he drank in the information practically oozing off the pages.

There were ridiculously many banal details about Boy’s victims that left Tom feeling like he was clawing at fog as he tried to piece them together; to find a pattern. A pattern that he believed, 25 pages in, did not exist.

“I don’t understand. There’s no connection,” he hissed to himself around lunchtime with at least five cigar butts in the ashtray beside him. The alcohol had already given his head a light buzz. His hair fell haphazardly over his face; whereas his clothes were as much of a wreck, shirt streaked in sweat, and pants covered in ash.

“All of them had fairly clean records and some position of authority within the council— but that’s it.”

His com beeped, alerting him he had a message from Severus: _I can guess your frustration across the galaxy. Take a shower, Tom._

So he did. With the file in his hands.

His eyes scanned the pages and he sighed. There was simply no evidence found at any of the crime scenes of a Boy existing. Not a single flashy note, DNA sample, signature move—nada—and he trusted the file because Bellatrix always provided the most in-depth data (classified or otherwise). From what Tom garnered: had the killings been investigated separately, they would have all been catalogued as accidental.

Yet the council is funding this manhunt for Boy, Tom thought grimly, with an urgent insistence that all these deaths are linked, and caused by Boy.

Watching ash gather at the rims of the shower stall should have been more boring than he found it. With a deep exhale, he ran a hand through his hair before clapping once. Hot air blasted at him, drying him within seconds.

The file was as pristine as when he first received it upon leaving the shower. It was yet another thing that unnerved him. He abandoned it on top the pile of his soiled clothes.

Fingers steady, he lit himself a cigar and stared out the window stark naked. The smoke rolled out his mouth lazily as the new knowledge settled itself in his mind.

“What would you notice first about Boy’s killings?” he asked himself quietly. Tom grimaced as the answer sprang in his mind. “The lack of pattern.”

The cowboy stared unblinkingly at the blurry signs out his window and the hazy outlines of what looked like dirt cruisers. He crushed his cigar after a few minutes, the taste of the smoke lingering on his lips.

When there were suspects in each case, they were always unassuming people. He pinned each of them mentally to investigate them in more depth. It felt futile when he sent his list off to Severus via watch later but it sent him down a rabbit hole of thought. Could this be a series of elaborate inside jobs? Was Boy, in fact, more than one person? And his biggest question thus far:

“How is Boy pulling off murders the biggest crooks in the galaxy can only dream of?”

He let his questions linger in the air as he dressed—a fresh black shirt and loose black pants procured from his travel satchel. There was nothing anymore on his mind when he slipped on his boots, and even less with the addition of his coat.

A message from Harry popped up on his com.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone reading! Makes my heart swell. You can find me on tumblr @voldybread.
> 
> Next up: Tom is surprised his translator is attractive.


	3. Vangelis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellatrix’s system kicks in when chaos breaks out and Tom and Harry discuss lives next to a trashbin.

**CHAPTER 3**

_“Danger starts on the sharp incline.”_

— All Mine, Portishead

“This is a good-looking restaurant,” Harry remarked as Tom guided him to their spot.

Tom dipped his head in acknowledgement. “It belongs to a friend of mine. I fancy a break from work.”

Harry settled into his chair. While they waited for their orders to come, he was a ball of nervous energy. If Tom hadn’t been exhausted from his fruitless attempts of deciphering the connections of Boy’s murders then he might’ve been more bothered by the incessant noise Harry’s fidgeting caused.

“Relax,” he told his dinner partner. “This is a casual meal. I expect nothing. Besides, you look quite good in this outfit.”

Harry tilted his head and shook his head. He said, “Fancy dining settings are weird to me.”

But for the compliment, Harry gave Tom a stilted smile. He gave his thanks and murmured something that Tom strained to catch. Ah, Tom thought when he understood. Harry had run into the Genesis folk again.

Tom smiled. He enjoyed his meal with Harry’s presence more than he would have without. His unease from that afternoon had vanished and he hadn’t even noticed.

After dinner, they took it along the star-bridge and into the Garden Unit, which was filled with blossoming flora from across the Milky Way. During this month, Bellatrix had commissioned her team to line the walkways with grand fruit-bearing trees. Tom didn’t know what they were so Harry supplied the name in English after reading a plaque. The orange leaves swayed in the soft breeze and the tendrils of fruit came down to brush the iron wood beneath their feet.

It was beautiful. But the crowds were thick in the gardens and Tom had long since formed a distaste for crowded spaces during leisure time. The duo ambled out of the Garden Unit, nearly stumbling into the Religion Unit, and made their way back to Central where they stopped when Harry wanted a snack. Above them, the Sky Ramp rushed through the air between the units.

“Could I have one of those?” Harry pointed up to a spot high up in a vending machine’s display. “It won’t be messy and distract during the supply run.”

Tom craned his head upwards and squinted in attempts to discern what it was his translator wanted from the goliath vending machine.

“It’s code C27; a cherrical pop.”

“Cherry pop?” Tom scanned the giant list of products by the drachma slot.

“No, cherrical. It’s a plant from one of the non-Council planets.”

The cowboy grunted and slipped in the coins, watching the lights in the skyscraper-tall vending machine flash and sparkle. He punched in the buttons for C27. A cheery female voice congratulated him on his selection; an automated message which then repeated in four hundred different languages.

Harry leaned against one of the pillars on the machine’s facade as they waited for the bot to finish its litany of congratulations. Tom zoned out by the third repetition.

“Farkas zuttli!” she chirped—or something like that—before Harry’s lollipop materialised in front of Tom.

“Farkas to you too, Sunny,” the cowboy echoed clumsily and snatched the lollipop to toss it over to his translator.

“It’s _farkas_ , Tom,” Harry corrected with a far more accurate pronunciation, tongue rolling and lips pursed in a way that produced a sound a human shouldn’t be able to. He huffed when his employer waved him off.

The pair slipped back into the foot traffic, heading in no particular direction. As they walked, Tom spoke. _A trip to Evlisti would be necessary_ , he said, _It’s currently off-limits but that’s precisely why we need to visit_.

Harry sucked on his lolly, listening to Tom with one ear. With the other, he was paying attention to the music that filtered out the street speakers. Not that Tom minded; he was too busy ruminating over his own problems.

Tom called out, “Harry, don’t drift off. I won’t be able to find you.”

On second thought, maybe he did mind.

His translator frowned and plucked at the jacket he was wearing. It was neon pink—like a dozen others in their immediate surroundings which made Tom’s eyes hurt only by looking around. It also matched the brightly colored make-up Harry had donned to blend in.

“Hey, friend, you wouldn’t happen to have a Morphit condom, eh?” rasped a voice near the cowboy’s ear.

Tom jerked back, startled.

The owner of the voice burst into laughter and wrapped a furry paw around his fishy partner. The duo seemed familiar. “So what say you?” the man asked, fangs flashing.

Tom felt disgust simmer in his gut before it clicked—the obnoxious couple had been before them in the parking line two days ago. He made to snark at the man, that is, until Harry’s hand blocked him. Any tension dissipated the moment a shiny packet was passed into the hands of the hairy beast. Harry exchanged some pleasant words with the couple before they parted ways, disappearing into an alleyway much to Tom’s displeasure.

Harry grinned, the yellow powder on his cheeks twinkling. “Come on, cowboy, the store’s close.”

He leaped ahead nimbly, gesturing for Tom to follow him. His skin shone under the lights as he twirled along the street curb with his voice humming some Terra Vian song unfamiliar to Tom, a Novian. Harry’s dancing was the kind of scene one saw in the music videos; a dolled up human dancing to some exotic alien song like a trinket.

Tom couldn’t help staring. He found it charming.

A surge of people flowed into the street from a nearby unit. All club-goers, they jostled their way along and an elbow soon dug into Tom's abdomen. People were packed all around him like sardines. He could barely spot Harry's decorated hands above the crowd.

A tail whacked the cowboy in the face. Growling, he clutched his face as his eyes stung. More bodies seemed to appear out of nowhere and stenches bombarded him from all directions with each new arrival. A step on the foot there, another body part pressed into his side—

Tom gasped.

Then, as abruptly as the crowd had come, everyone dispersed. There was laughter as the hordes tiptoed drunkenly into the next club or restaurant.

The street was left deserted with only the flickering placards buzzing down at Tom. He stood frozen in the middle for minutes afterwards as if under a spell. It broke. Urgently, he whipped his head around looking for Harry. There was no-one. Even the garbage on the ground looked desolate.

A dulcet tinge of tangerine hovered in the air.

* * *

Tom left a few messages on his com for Harry before he sent a message to Severus to check Harry’s location when he couldn’t check himself. He waited, eyes frenzied, in the street in his partying-inappropriate attire and ignored the looks he got. At long last, Tom’s watch pinged and he lifted it up to read the message.

> **S52493** : _Tracker is offline. Major interference throughout Vangelis. Something is happening._

The cowboy felt his senses snap awake. “Answer. Who is on _Vangelis_ that is of importance?”

He didn’t stay in place until Severus’ response came through. Instead, Tom was immediately running through the streets towards the Sky Ramp just in case Severus’ information gave him a different unit from his current location. It was so crowded; going on foot by the star-bridges would be too slow. As expected, the next message came in with a ping.

> **S52493** : _Many._

Cursing, Tom switched the settings on his watch so that it would read aloud the message to him as he ran. He rummaged through his coat and popped in his hearing aids.

“—Zarvzar of Pluto Major. Prince Seju of Kypris. Chancellor Dumbledore of Hogwarts—”

Albus Dumbledore? The blasted old fool? Tom made a face as he hopped onto a Sky Ramp cabin. Its occupants gave him ugly glares when he smushed in between them but one flash of his watch and they immediately gave way.

“Answer. Which one is the closest to me?” Tom said urgently into his com.

“Ambassador Zarvzar of Pluto Major is in the Porcelain Unit. Get off at the next stop.”

Tom thanked the stars it was close. “Answer. Thank you, Sev. Keep looking for Harry Potter.”

He stood in the rattling cabin, waiting antsily for the cabin to dock. It halted and he had his fingers poised over the OPEN button when a message flashed over the door.

_PLEASE REMAIN CALM. WE ARE DETACHING THE PORCELAIN UNIT. THIS CABIN WILL CONTINUE ONTO THE NEXT DESTINATION._

Fuck.

Tom pressed himself to the glass. His cabin was rapidly speeding away from the docking platform but Tom peered below. The unit's massive gates were closing, disrupting the scenic appearance with the harsh glint of metal—a color which clashed with the pretty galaxy scenes projected on the ceiling of the complex. People nearby were hastily running away through the gates. The star-bridges were packed.

He ran a hand through his hair, his slicked back coiffure coming undone in gelled strands. Around him, people were watching him uneasily. The cowboy gave them a winning smile in response, which did nothing to ease their discomfort.

A beep sounded from his watch. Tom glanced at it and pressed a button, which summoned a 3D map and a red dot that represented Harry’s location. Which was just outside one of the gates connecting the Porcelain unit to Tom’s current unit.

He made sure he was the first off of the cabin and he darted to the gates—and Harry—barking orders in the meantime to Severus to get him access to the abandoned Porcelain unit before _Vangelis_ moved away. Before it fell under the council’s jurisdiction.

It felt like forever had passed when Tom reached the gates and spotted Harry, whose green eyes were trained on the sealed silver gates.

“Harry!” Tom bellowed.

His translator swivelled around and, after confused roaming, found Tom.

“There was a murder,” Harry quickly told him, “Of an ambassador. Pluto Major.”

Well, double fuck. Tom swore as he halted beside Harry, his heartrate thrumming quickly with adrenaline. There was relief that Harry was with him but also trepidation: Harry’s disappearance bothered him.

“Where were you?” he asked.

“Sorry. There were crowds. I thought you were with me and the next thing I knew I was in the next unit.”

Not letting Harry leave his side was proving to be difficult. Tom sighed and dragged his hand through his hair again to push it out of his eyes. Harry watched his actions.

“I see. My fault for not establishing a rendezvous point. I sent you messages but with what happened, all the signals were scrambled.” Tom eyed the gates suspiciously.

His watch lit up and an automated voice filtered through Tom’s ears, “No access. Bellatrix has alerted the council and passed over the unit.”

How efficient of her, he bemoaned snidely.

“Answer. Get me every detail you can.” Then, to Harry, Tom said, “Let’s go. We need to keep moving.”

The past few days had lulled him into a false sense of control. What need was there for a peaceful dinner when his target was out there with dozens of other cowboys hunting the same bounty? And although there was no statement of it yet, Tom knew that the murder today had been Boy’s work.

* * *

Severus called as they had just veered away from _Vangelis_ , the neighbouring planet twinkling at them from nearby.

“Murder by Boy on Vangelis; Porcelain Unit at 2230,” Severus’ voice told him dryly. “Ambassador Zarvzar of Pluto Major.”

He then prattled off with a multitude of other facts to which Tom responded minimally. White knuckles gripped the controls of the ship in a suffocating hold.

“Can you sneak me onto the crime scene?” the cowboy asked as he steered the _Basilisk_ towards the abandoned unit. On his ship’s display, a warning icon appeared.

“Ordinarily, Tom, I would try. However, you and I both know the unit is massive and the time you’d spend scouring the scene for clues so close to the incident, you could be well on your way to the Council’s archives.”

Tom didn’t enjoy working exclusively from the Council’s reports of the crime scenes. Were this a market case… he could employ all his underground contacts. Unfortunately, it was an office. Bureaucracy slowed down all his work.

He sighed. Then he input a request for a teleportal to the Branch Three checkpoint.

If he couldn’t get to the crime scene, he’d at least make sure he’d be the first to get his hands on the newest files in the Council’s database. Perks of being Number One signed onto an office. Everyone had to wait for him.

* * *

Immediately after using the teleportal, Tom was reminded of why he didn’t use them.

Tom lurched up in cold sweat from his dreams, his breaths ripping his throat apart from within while he groped for his oxygen mask; always, always sucking in large mouthfuls of dewy air with stinging tears dripping down his cheeks. Heart pounding in his ears, he sniffled as the monitor inside the apparatus flashed a series of green lights.

This was bodylag. It happened to everyone, in some form or another, when visiting other planets. Its most severe forms occurred after teleportal use. Arrival checks and body modifiers prevented the worst of it when they could—but when they couldn’t, you ended up with cases like Tom. Bedridden, unstable, and with feverish hallucinations.

Tom threw away the mask to drop his head into his hands.

For him, it wasn’t worth the thousands of drachmas for instantaneous travel. His body never reacted properly to the modifiers they administered to humans since it was just Tom’s luck that his body didn’t fit the standardized mould.

Harry’s coffee maker whirred from next door. The cowboy focused on the sound with his red-rimmed eyes staring up at the ceiling. Everything hurt. The sweat started dripping back down his face. This pain is temporary, he reminded himself. All for the greater good.

When the pain wracked his body again and he fell back into a deep slumber, Tom dreamed of death. Then through it all, he would find Boy. A shapeless silhouette because his mind couldn’t provide yet a face, a species. He grabbed Boy’s wrist and pulled him close and fire in Tom’s skin burned at the touch.

When he got Boy’s bounty, he’d get back everything tenfold. Although currently, he was beginning to feel like he was chasing after a dream. A very expensive dream.

* * *

Checkpoint Three brought them to the speedway: a transportation system developed by the Council of the Galaxy for the usage of inhabitants of all Council-registered planets. Also known as, according to its users, the fastest and largest traffic jam in the galaxy.

“We haven’t moved for the past fourteen hours, Tom,” Harry said pointedly, forking noodles into his mouth.

Tom flicked up a map of the speedway and their location. “But we made progress.”

They were more than halfway to the human-access wing of the Council. It was to their good fortune the nearest ship to them was a massive trashbin. It made for a very exciting view. This observation made Harry snort when Tom expressed it aloud.

The long waits for motion within their vessel might as well have driven them mad. They continued staring at the monitor, watching their tiny dot blipping in and out of existence along the speedway.

It came as a relief for the cowboy when Harry spoke a little later and broke the dreaded silence. Although the topic had his stomach curdling.

“I don’t think we’ve properly spoken about ourselves since we met, Tom,” Harry said.

Tom crossed his legs, leaning back in his chair. He affected a cool look and gave Harry a sideways glance. “Tell me something. I’ll listen.”

Harry spluttered. He huffed and puffed. Then he sighed. Harry’s hands deftly tossed the biodegradable noodle container into the garbage chute.

“Okay,” he said. After some deliberation, he began:

“It’s a funny thing being human, I realized early on. I guess I picked on this faster having grown up in a mixed household. I grew up with uncles that are non-human and a grandmother with Surilin blood.” A small smile. “And, of course, Luna. Half-Pom, half-human, and the best cousin one could have.”

Softly, the translator continued with his tale, unbothered by Tom’s silence:

“Our history texts say that even when it was just us on Earth, we couldn’t cope with the diversity. In a way, it’s somewhat humbling what role we have now in the galaxy; a young, inexperienced species by all accounts except our own. It’s a thought that I’ve always kept in mind, even as a child, and I suppose, what led me to wanting to become a translator. Although… Via’s not an easy planet for aspiring translators and my parents never exactly supported me. What they did support instead was the reputation that came attached to being a translator. Great wealth, respect, and reverence for accomplished ones of the trade—that’s what it has also become: a trade.”

Tom waited for Harry elaborate more but he didn’t. Harry’s green eyes challenged Tom to share his own tale and Tom couldn’t help his reluctance.

He glanced at his coat set aside, a flurry of emotion stirring in him. The cowboy looked down at his hands before speaking up. It was difficult for him. He’d accepted Harry as his help and as someone who would be gone from his ship as soon as the bounty was acquired. To share his past felt intimate.

This wasn’t a moment between Marvolo Gaunt, the rogueish Number One cowboy, and Harry Potter, his illegal translator and interpreter. This was a moment between people. Not façades.

In Tom’s gut, nausea lingered. Was this a remnant of his bodylag or was this him?

Lowly, he spoke, “I was one of the youngest recruits at the cowboy training facility. I lied about my age to get in.”

One had to be eighteen to qualify, to capture and kill.

“I was an orphan. I was fit. I came from Terra Nova. But I wasn’t legal yet. My older colleagues enjoyed making my life rather difficult. They suspected I wasn’t being truthful but they didn’t see me as proper competition.” Tom chuckled, dimples appearing. “According to them, I should have pursued modelling and not be stuck on some forsaken asteroid on the periphery of the Milky Way.”

“You are handsome,” Harry commented.

Tom startled. Not at the comment but at the interjection. Yes, he was. He knew that and used it to his advantage often. Though it unnerved him once again to be reminded of Harry and who he was to Tom. I am your employer, part of him yearned to reiterate. The other part, which won out, didn’t care. So he went with that.

“Thank you, Harry,” Tom said evenly. He spread an arm, gesturing to the ship. “As you can see, I’ve done rather well. Ah. Which reminds me…”

He got to his feet and checked their position. They’d made progress. Not much, but the _Basilisk_ would arrive in good time. Tom set the ship to autopilot before giving his attention back to Harry.

“I’m concerned about security. Can you fight?”

Harry’s mouth dropped open like a fish. “Er,” he said eloquently, “Somewhat?”

Feeling back in control, Tom relaxed. “For a polyglot, your tongue gets tied quite often. Do you want to spar with me, Harry?” At Harry’s sceptical expression, Tom added, “To pass the time.”

Harry bristled. He relented with a “yeah, alright, whatever.” But in the sparring room, Harry groaned the moment Tom passed him his protective gear.

The translator said, “This isn’t in my pay.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “This is between two bored friends.”

“Friends? So I can kick your ass with no consequences?” Harry asked.

Employer nodded to employee. Harry beamed and slid on his protective guards. When Tom took off his shirt, Harry swore.

“But you’re ripped!” Harry cried out.

Tom crossed the room to stand across from Harry in the ring.

“You can fight, Harry,” Tom said confidently. He bent into stance, beckoning Harry to fight.

He was right. Harry could fight. Very well.

* * *

Tom went over Bellatrix’s file yet again. This time, he accepted the Council’s projection of Boy. He looked over each victim and each murder with the eyes of a believer.

 _These were not accidents,_ he allowed, _and I will not treat them as such. Everything is deliberate._

But it was so absurd to him that Boy could be so adept in leaving no traces behind. Tom was not one to underestimate his opponents. This was something else. This was the work of a god in crime.

In some cases, there were suspects. In others, there was nothing except hapless coincidence. Tom scoffed at one of the suspects on the file. He knew the man and he lacked the finesse to carry out the operation the Council was proposing. Just like many of the other incidents, they had not been disruptive. No alarms, no flashy gunfights. Calm and quiet until someone dropped dead.

Tom’s theory moving forward was that Boy was employing people to help. The operations were too seamless to be the work of a group. It seemed more likely to him that there was Boy, the mastermind, and the people under him. If it had been Tom, he wouldn’t employ the same people each time either. Everything would be arranged in advance to appear either like accidents or to carefully frame someone else. Never with enough evidence to incriminate them, hence Boy’s involvement becoming clear to the Council, but enough to throw the investigators for a loop.

Boy had extensive inside knowledge of each of his targets. Tom was impressed. He fought the itch for a cigar, aware he was on his ship, and settled for a drink.

This case was proving to be quite a conundrum. Tom liked it that way. Although he didn’t quite have the patience to be a detective, he delighted in finding a bounty that challenged his mind. Fist-fights were only fun for so long.

He shuffled the pages in the file, drawing out a map of the murdered officials. He hummed as he worked on his diagram but was pleased when he finished. Most of these dead people had known each other or worked with each other.

Tom sent off a request to Severus to track any mentions of Boy’s victims and shared his thoughts.

“If the Council is involved, it’s not unlikely that Boy is a war between factions. Internal politics,” he told Severus. “I want you to compile a document on the relations between all the Council officials right now and the galactic planets.”

It didn’t matter right now whether or not Boy was truly a real person, someone was still behind all of this. Hoax or not, real money was at stake, and the deaths were real. Unless they weren’t, in which case:

“Could you also ask Bellatrix to verify if all of the victims are dead?”

Severus answered with little more than a grunt of affirmation. They’d both seen stranger things before.

“That file on the relations…” Severus sighed. “How far back do you want it to go? It’s going to be long and expensive.”

Tom stared at his screens. “As long as there’ll be a profit from the bounty, it’ll be a success.”

“Right. Have you seen the news? Boy’s receiving quite a bit of fame. You too. ‘Number One Cowboy Returns From Retirement to Join Notorious Bounty’ and so on. Congratulations.”

That wasn’t any good news and definitely no cause for celebration. Tom reached for the list Bellatrix made for him of potential threats. A pirate wouldn’t be any good. Less so a pirate masqueraded as a cowboy. It bothered Tom that he was so dependent on Bellatrix’s help.

* * *

They were sprayed down upon arrival with liquid that turned into a frothy gas as soon as it touched their skin. As flashing lights circled them, dozens of pinpricks flowered against their skin. The machine spat them out onto a pristine baby blue floor.

“Welcome to the Council’s archives, Harry,” Tom said pleasantly. Tom helped Harry off of the ground.

An androgynous figure made its way up to them with a cattish smile and they pointed to themselves with a delicate paw. “Hi. You may call me Pie,” they said, “I will serve as your translator and guide for everything you need during your visit. Your primary language listed on your ship’s interface is English. Is this alright for us to proceed?”

Taking their silence as an affirmation, Pie said: “It says here that you are Tom Riddle, official occupation: retired bounty hunter,” then a stilted pause as before continuing, “And Harry Potter, an unregistered, unlicensed translator.”

Said translator bristled, just barely visibly. “That would be us.”

Both Harry and Tom knew for fact that the two words in front of Harry’s job were not actually on the document. A pleased flick of Pie’s tail alerted them that their suspicions were not unfounded.

Their guide tucked away their tablet and whirled around with a flourish. “Follow me then.”

In silence, the pair followed Pie down spacious hallways until they reached a pair of doors, which parted to reveal an elevator.

To Harry, Pie said, “You’ll have to stop here. Individuals without Council memberships are not permitted further.” The words were laced with saccharine sweet politeness that clearly meant otherwise.

Harry clenched his fists behind his back, managing an understanding nod. He watched Tom’s back as the cowboy slipped into the elevator.

“I’ll see you soon, Harry,” Tom told him. He received a nod in answer before the doors slid shut.

Once the floor displayed on the elevator changed, the Council guide turned to Harry with a smile. “So you want to be a translator?” Pie asked in a dialect from a nameless dwarf planet near Nova.

Harry’s pleasant smile grew larger a fraction as he responded in equal measure: “I hope to take a registered course at the Council soon, yes.”

Mild surprise registered in Pie’s eyes at the ease with which Harry responded. “We don’t have many human translators here… and by that, I mean none. You must be very skilled.” The language had been switched again.

“Oh, I’m still learning. I couldn’t possibly claim to be a master,” Harry replied, tongue smoothly forming the last syllable before he decided to play things up on his own terms. If his deductions were correct, Pie was harbouring an illegal secret.

In an obscure and nearly dead dialect of Suri, Harry said softly, “I’m sure as a Surilin, you understand the difficulties of establishing oneself in the trade and I’m honoured to be in your presence, let alone find myself under your tutelage.”

Pie froze, tail seizing up. When they tiptoed up to glare at Harry, their pupils—despite the fury blazing from them—had not changed size. It looked as if they had implants in their eyes, stunting any form of change and forcing the eye to remain in a distinctly feline shape. This, Harry noted grimly, was one of many fatal procedures many Surilin underwent to become more like Poms. After all, Harry’s great-grandfather had undergone the same illegal species change.

“Do not speak of that here,” Pie hissed in their native tongue.

“You will die before the next year and you know it, comrade,” Harry said quietly. “Your doctor has damaged your heart.”

He couldn’t help the sympathy that leaked into his voice and the Surilin deflated, tail coiling near their body in a fashion representative of their race.

“They refuse me further procedures. If I cannot complete the process, I will die.”

Harry stayed silent. There was nothing he could say or suggest that could be safe to utter within Council grounds. “Perhaps if you—“

“Is something the matter here?”

The appearance of English felt jarring as it interrupted the flow of the exchange. Harry turned to the speaker, forcibly releasing the tension that had built up in his shoulders, and flashed a shy smile. It was another Council member and one of higher ranking if Pie’s hasty bow was anything to go by. But Harry didn’t trust this person, as cheery and harmless as he seemed.

“Are you not going up?” the unknown man spoke. There was curiosity in his amber eyes.

Pie scrambled, paws procuring a file for the superior. “His name is Harry Potter and he is unauthorised for Council benefits.” The hologram shook as the Surilin held out the tablet.

Only a brief glance was spared the file’s way before the attention was turned back to Harry. The translator felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise uncomfortably under the tall man’s scrutiny.

“Pity. Hope to see you registered soon, Harry Potter. We do need a human translator around here to help out.” An impish grin accompanied the words. “My name’s Barty; I’m also a Via native.”

Barty’s large hand was covered in small bandages. As Harry took the offered handshake, he wondered if the man was in any pain. He searched Barty’s face.

Barty grinned sweetly back at him. “Pie, he should be taken to the Visitors’ Hall.”

The Surilin nearly fell in their hurry to bow. They grabbed Harry by the arm, with intentions to whisk him away. Nothing more could be said, Harry realised faintly, not without some form of adequate standing; which Harry knew he could acquire only if he registered for Council membership—but the bitter taste in his mouth reminded him why he chose not to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments gave me heart palpitations of joy! I got a few questions about my inspirations: Cowboy Bebop, Blade Runner (& 2049), and Stars Wars (the OG 3).
> 
> Next up: old foes are reunited.


	4. Council Archives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Harry do a lot of fighting. Might be the space air.

**CHAPTER 4**

_“Black hearted angels sunk me  
With kisses on my mouth”_

— Honey Whiskey, Nothing But Thieves

“Severus told me you might be here looking for some missing links.”

Tom flinched at the close proximity of the voice and yanked his hands out of the sludge, watching it ooze back into place. A yellowish-tinted bubble rose to the top and exploded with a sick pop.

Barty let out a mournful sound beside him. “Gosh, you never change, do you?”

“I’m not known for patience, you’re aware.”

“Well, you know I don’t appreciate you touching the files with your bare hands either, Tom.”

The cowboy observed as Barty snapped on a pair of translucent gloves before submerging his hands into the sludge-filled drawer. Blue light bathed them when Barty’s hands pulled out a miniscule tablet, which he slotted into an ovular opening in front of them.

Soon enough, a three-dimensional projection of Pluto Major’s Ambassador flickered into existence. Text rapidly materialised beside the image.

Barty cleared his throat before saying, “This is Boy’s latest victim, Ambassador Zarvzar. You were nearby at the time of his death.”

Tom grimaced. “Yes, but I was denied access to the scene.”

“Rightly so,” The Council archivist murmured. He dragged his fingers through the blue goop and the image morphed into a model of what could be best described as a club for aquatic creatures. “This is footage we gathered from the security cameras.”

Under his breath, Barty muttered something that sounded like a curse directed at “Bellatrix’s outdated security system.” Tom snorted. Her preference for older systems had inconvenienced many but anyone who had a foot in some hidden activity knew it was for the better.

They watched the footage play; little pixelated figures moving around the mock-club until, finally, the massive whale-like form of Ambassador Zarvzar began to spasm.

“Do you see what our dilemma is, Tom?” Barty asked. He rewinded the scene until a single tiny figure stood beside Zarvzar. “That’s the only person who could be considered a suspect—Alex Fort is his human name, with many petty crimes under his belt. The problem is: we’ve traced all his previous moves and there appears to be nothing unusual.”

“Anyone else?” But Tom already knew the answer, joylessly surveying the files displayed in the folder.

“Everyone else is clean. We’ve done checks on them too—even of their activity up to six months ago. There’s no-one we can find that could have caused his death.”

The model of the club was rotated until a clear outlined blueprint remained. The footage played again from the beginning. There was not a single soul who drifted into an unflattering place; no activity in the vents (an obvious place) or even in the servancy bots’ passageways.

Projection blinking out of existence, Barty removed the tablet from the slot to slide in the one of the next victim. “And the worst part is that Ambassador Zarvzar died of his shrimp allergy.”

Tom didn’t as much as blink. This was unsurprisingly the pattern in many of Boy’s victims’ deaths. True to form, Evlisti’s Director’s file proved no more exciting than Zarvzar’s.

“I’m making you a copy of all twenty-six files of Boy’s victims,” Barty told him while tossing the gloves aside. “Do you think you might need anything else?”

Tom leaned against the wall of the archive with a deep groan. Even with his long fingers busily tapping away at the keyboard, the archivist managed a deep chuckle. Goop began to bubble and light up in the open drawer closest to Tom. Before long, a stack of files floated to the surface.

“Do you have anything on Gryffindor? Bellatrix mentioned it.”

If Barty knew the name, his amber eyes offered no indication of it. He merely shrugged and spun around, lithe fingers sliding the files into a crate—which he held out for Tom to take. The cowboy took it, albeit gingerly; and with a wary glance at the many bandages on Barty’s fingers.

“Not here. I’ll have to dig a bit in the other archives.” A pause. “Could I ask you something?”

Tom had made to leave, stopping only to cock his head at Barty’s question. “Go on.”

Barty shifted, his tall figure seeming to shrink with the weight of whatever ailed his thoughts. At last, he said, “It’s about Severus. Do you know where he’s been hiding?” At Tom’s frown, Barty hastily added: “I asked him but he’s been telling me for the past years to ask you.”

The blue light seemed to grow harsher the longer Tom stayed in that room. With a second sigh in a short time, the cowboy looked to his watch.

“He would never tell me anything. Not even when we were teammates during his cowboy times,” Tom said.

The archivist’s eyes lit up, mouth opening to ask something else but Tom had already stepped halfway through the door.

“Ask me anything else in seven years, Barty,” he called out. He didn’t have time for this. He needed to find Harry.

Barty shouted after him, “If you stay for a milkshake or two, I’ll have someone give you the information!”

* * *

Harry was talking to Pie when Tom entered the Visitors’ Hall. They were huddled together in a far corner, by a brightly painted purple wall. Tom stalked over to the pair and Harry noted the crate he was carrying in his arms. Immediately, Harry was on his feet and offering to take the crate.

“Let me take that. I’ll probably have to translate a bunch of it, no?” Harry asked.

Tom shook his head, angling the crate away from Harry’s reach. “This is my dirty laundry, Harry,” Tom told him.

Pie cleared their throat. “I’ll get going. Let’s keep in touch, yes, Harry?”

Harry beamed at Pie and they shared a few more chittering words in Suri which Tom couldn’t decipher. Tom raised his eyebrows and settled into the chair Pie vacated once they left.

“I was under the impression that they were bothering you when I went up,” Tom remarked.

“Yes,” Harry shrugged, “But we worked it out. They’re really sweet actually, just going through some things.”

“What are you drinking?”

The cowboy reached for Harry’s drink but was denied, Harry giving him a questioning glare. Tom pulled back his hand and reached for the menu instead. He glanced over the items.

Feeling charitable, Harry pointed out the beverage that he ordered. He said, “That’s my drink. Are we staying? Don’t you want to get that crate back to the ship?”

They both glanced at the extremely conspicuous blue crate Tom had at the feet of his chair.

“I’m waiting to receive one last thing. As soon as I get that, we can leave. Is this a milkshake?”

Harry shook his head before bending over to read the description to Tom in English. He pointed out a few more options that were milkshakes and Tom chose one at random, sending the order out with a ding on the screen. With that out of his way, Tom lounged in his seat like he had no care in the world. It was strongly at contrast with the scene Harry and Pie had made earlier. An onlooker would have been able to tell that they were travelling together but the halting exchanges in conversation made it seem like they had had a lover’s spat or something. Very noticeable. Harry rubbed his temples. At least people would avoid their corner.

“Tom Riddle, is that you?” a gravelly voice asked suddenly.

Harry looked up to see Albus Dumbledore, the Chancellor of Hogwarts. Well, Hogwarts was the popular name but it was officially known as the HOG. To have the presence of the Chancellor himself however… Harry’s hackles rose. Across the table, Tom’s demeanour matched Harry’s. They had history, if the Chancellor’s knowledge of Tom’s full name was anything to go by. Furthermore, Tom’s distaste for Chancellor Dumbledore was very much obvious.

“Dumbledore,” Tom stated with a cold nod of the head.

Harry kept his mouth shut as Tom and the Chancellor engaged in an impromptu staring match. When it seemed to drag on, Harry spoke up.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Harry. Tom’s translator.”

Both parties ignored him. So. This was suitably awkward.

“I heard you signed onto that new case. Last I heard, you were in retirement,” Chancellor Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling.

Tom gave the old man a large, strained smile. “Yes, a friend asked me give the latest office a chance. Very tempting.”

Harry spotted a four-armed Northerner who swerved close to their table. He tensed but then relaxed when he realised it was the janitor. His feet moved to frame the crate tightly regardless.

“You weren’t one for offices, were you? I remember you taking on many unofficial bounties years ago. Alas, I suppose tastes change with the times, don’t they? I can attest to that myself.”

Tom’s milkshake materialised before them.

The Chancellor’s expression changed to surprise then shifted back into his friendly face. “Good choice, Tom. The milkshakes here are quite close to the Terranean equivalent—"

Harry’s alarm spiked when the janitor slid a cool blue slab into Tom’s crate with one of his arms. His other arms were scrubbing at the floor and his eyes were trained away from the exchange between Tom and the Chancellor. Done, the janitor swept away in a flurry of mopping. The translator peaked over to the crate. Surely, this had been the contact Tom had been waiting for. Harry fiddled with his glasses, suddenly utterly engrossed in what Tom and Chancellor Dumbledore were discussing.

“—but, unfortunately, still too bitter.”

“I chose the milkshake for him,” Harry said to the air.

“Harry chose it for me,” Tom echoed, legs crossed and hands distinctly interlocked. He snarked, “You talk as much as ever, old man.”

His body language screamed for Chancellor Dumbledore to disengage, that there was no idle chatter to be found with the cowboy. Harry wondered why the Chancellor was wandering without an entourage either for security or utility reasons. It left him with no interpreter or secretary to empathise with Harry in his sorry moment. It was also a massive security risk. If something were to happen, blame would fall on them. Suddenly, Harry felt the need to shoo Chancellor Dumbledore away.

He chuckled, “Look at the time! Tom and I need to find someone and leave. We have an appointment to catch.”

Harry rose from his chair and lifted the crate into his arms, muscles protesting weakly, before he met eyes with Tom. A silent exchange transpired. Tom uncrossed his legs to get to his feet.

“Yes,” Tom said abruptly. “We’re needed elsewhere.”

Chancellor Dumbledore let them gather their things and watch them leave the table. Only when Tom had turned with his back to the table, did Chancellor Dumbledore say with mirth, “You forgot to try the milkshake, Tom. Another time.”

Harry knew from Tom’s thunderous expression that there would be no next time if it were up to the cowboy. Inwardly, Harry was just glad to have avoided a galactic scandal even if their means of escape had been as graceful as a supermassive black hole.

“The contact passed by,” Harry told Tom as they rushed through the hallways towards the docks. Their pace could almost have been considered running since Harry had to break into a jog sometimes to keep up.

Tom made a face. “A mercy Dumbledore let us leave. I’ll check at the ship. Let’s go.”

He sped up even more. Harry pursed his lips, then just started sprinting after Tom.

* * *

Upon settling back into _Basilisk_ , Harry asked Tom at last what the discontent between the cowboy and the Chancellor was. Tom’s pleasant demeanour crumpled but a few sips of his drink later, he was willing to share.

“Chancellor Dumbledore is a prominent figure of the cowboy non-supporters,” Tom relented. “If it were up to him, I would be out of a job before I pay you your second month of wages.”

Then he cleared his throat and made a motion toward the crate. “While you’re still on payroll, I’d delight in seeing translated copies of those files.”

Harry sifted through the files, to gauge his workload, and felt his suspicions confirmed when he saw which documents Tom had taken out from the archives. Twenty-six files for twenty-six murders. He supposed that even the Number One cowboy was not immune to the bounty Boy’s case presented.

Was it pressure to remain the best? Or was it the money? Tom seemed to have an indifferent attitude to money. His position as Number One… Harry decided to do some research of his own into the cowboy hierarchy. Not much, just enough to understand his employer, Harry allowed.

A twenty-seventh file peaked out from the bottom of the crate when Harry emptied it out in the privacy of his room. What was this one about?

He lifted it to the light. It read: _Gryffindor [Prophecy, Boy-Who-Lived]._

* * *

Tom was monitoring the cowboy rankings. Now that Tom received the Council’s files, the line waiting to receive them resumed. There were many comments from new cowboys, talking about the case, and theories about the Number One. He’d caused quite a stir with his return. Some people were annoyed that he’d come out of retirement, calling him a selfish old bastard, while others were in awe.

He supposed it was only natural. Tom’s achievements were rather unbelievable. No other cowboy came close to having as many closed cases as Tom did.

It was a dull thing, to check the discourse. After a while, Tom closed his eyes and shut the screens for a brief break. Many of the top ten were familiar to him. Less so in the ten to fifty slots. When the ache in his eyes faded he opened the boards back up. He scrolled through the people signed to Boy’s case. Many of the higher ranks had joined, much like him, but only one name set him on edge. Carrow.

Ever since Amycus’ death, Alecto Carrow was erratic and unstable. Much of her madness was directed towards him for reasons he understood wholly. Her absence during his peaceful years at _Ataraxia_ had been a disappointment. For all her bloodthirstiness, she hadn’t sought revenge then. When Tom was a sitting duck, why did she not attack?

Because she has been waiting for a moment like this, his mind answered. _Would this case not be your crowning achievement?_

The target painted on Tom’s back had yet to be struck. He was anticipating the attacks. Now that he had the Council information, which hundreds of thousands were backlogged for, and he had one of Bellatrix’s coveted intelligence reports, there would be those that would hunt him too. It was one of the rules of the trade. To be ahead meant to be hunted. With Boy such an elusive, tantalising bounty, it was an easy strategy to stalk the one with the best resources and let someone else do the grunt work for you.

He’d done that. He’d hunted those leagues before him, he’d even been the one to kill the Number One that came before him. But what most of the bounty hunters didn’t know was that in a galaxy as large as the Milky Way, was that Tom’s network was his true jewel.

Nostalgia tickled at him and, to crush burgeoning sappiness, Tom turned his attention to an adjacent window where he had Harry’s com exchanges displayed. He took in the symbols on the screen with indifference but he regarded Harry’s actions sharply. His translator was translating… for now.

As sweet as Harry’s company was, there would be no trust. If Tom could pull strings, so could others. There could be no possibility of betrayal. Therefore, as he watched Harry’s network activity, some part of him prayed Harry would not disappoint him.

 _Do not_ , he whispered to himself when Harry started up his com, _do not betray me_. _Prove to me my faith in you is grounded._

Harry’s message was sent. Tom waited for the worst.

A ping came from Tom’s own com. He stared at the large screens in front of him, drinking in the words on the screen hungrily.

_ID: Harry Potter TO ID: Marvolo Gaunt. 0201._

> **Harry** **:** _Finished five files. Good enough for a sparring break?_

Pleasure burned through Tom’s core in noxious tendrils. His own reply was typed quickly and sent promptly. Harry Potter was smarter than Tom had hoped. Either he was astute enough not to abandon Tom’s camp or he was cautious enough to not underestimate Tom in his treachery.

On the other side of the ship, Harry’s com lit up with a message.

> **Tom** **:** _More than. See you._

* * *

“How does a translator like yourself know how to fight?” Tom finally asked during a friendly parry at 1445.

Friendly usually entailed things that were pleasant, with the vision of sweet gestures and warmth, but this was not the case in their situation. In the ring, friendly meant challenging each other with death—not _to_ the death—which Tom and Harry were doing remarkably well.

The Terra Vian man rammed an elbow into Tom’s side, who in return landed a blow against Harry’s shin, and failed an attempt at his neck. Harry grit his teeth from pain and dodged easily the narrow swings of a dagger engraved with Tom’s name.

With a laugh, Harry answered him: “Via’s a dump. Nova’s a paradise next to it.” A sharp grunt when Tom’s dagger nicked skin. “You just—”

Tom found himself with aching lungs and his back flat against the mats. The air in his lungs had vanished upon impact. He stared up at the metal ceiling, listening to the barely audible patter of Harry’s footsteps as he stepped into view. Tom reached into his concealed holster.

His translator rolled his wrists and smiled down at him serenely as he slammed his foot into Tom’s chest. A halo of silver-tipped black hair framed the head of the smile’s owner.

“You learn to look after yourself,” Harry finished.

Tom cocked an eyebrow, jamming the mouth of his unloaded gun into Harry’s foot. Harry looked down and sighed.

“You play dirty!”

Tom retorted, “I’m a cowboy, not a sportsman.”

“Fine. Let’s go again.”

Harry rolled back to his place on the mats and Tom pushed himself into stance. They collected their things, each popping back their weapons back into their concealed places. Tom insisted Harry should carry a small pistol and a few blades at all times. Not made of metal, naturally, to avoid being detected. It made sparring more fun too, to have the added risk of real weapons.

It was exhilarating, Tom thought as he launched himself at Harry. He pulled out his baton from his belt and flicked it open, bringing it in wide. Harry darted back and rolled through Tom’s legs, elbowing the backs of the cowboy’s knees. Tom’s legs buckled despite himself and he fell to his feet.

Harry leapt up onto Tom’s back and onto his shoulders. He balanced there as Tom rose to his feet, swinging wildly from side to side. The translator laughed lightly but yelped when Tom caught his hands to pull him to the ground. He smacked into the mats with a thwack but twisted his arms out of Tom’s grip before the cowboy started tossing him around.

“I’ve never met a trained cowboy before,” Harry said. He evaded Tom’s baton but hissed when it connected with a thud on his temple.

Tom halted. “We’re stopping,” he said. Was he a fool? He was putting his only employee at risk.

“Why? The fight is ongoing!” Harry protested.

“I need you intact to do your job. How’s your head?”

“Fine,” Harry said. He paused when an onslaught of dizziness came over him. “I’m not happy with the outcome of this round. We rematch for this one too. Another day.”

Tom acquiesced, snapping his baton closed. He came close to Harry and leaned in, observing his temple. He left. When he came back, he brought a first aid kit and insisted on Harry taking a few painkillers.

Even though it had been Harry that had been hit, Tom felt a weight to his body. Fighting was a vulnerable state and he felt wrong for having been so liberal with it between them. They tidied up the area and Tom instructed Harry to take a break. Harry grumbled on his way to his room, which made Tom smile.

Satisfied, the cowboy retreated to his quarters, where he had holograms of Boy’s many victims playing on his monitor. If the spar with Harry offered some brief respite, entering his room dunked him back into his frustration. He felt as if he were staring at a river, looking for a water droplet.

He settled into his chair, rewinding the hologram. Who was this? Ah, Chancellor Henry of the Gourd City University on Terra Via. In comparison to the other cases, this man was a nobody. Tom leaned in.

 _“_ _—hadn’t seen him for weeks until I heard of his death.”_ The digital face’s eyebrows furrowed in clear distress.

_“But, ma’am, you were seen in his company hours before his passing.”_

The face registered confusion. Although not perfect, the mouth twisted as if holding back a sob. _“Are you suggesting that I—“_

Her voice crackled and the projection’s clarity fluctuated as she rattled on shakily. Not that Tom was paying attention. He’d long grown tired of listening to the endless stream of interviews and footage. This was a tiresome detective’s work. His focus drifted. Green eyes occupied his mind when he blinked.

She stood up now on the tape, tears streaming down her cheeks. _“Fine! I did see him hours before he died. But I did not kill him! I did not!”_

At this point, Tom switched it off. He discarded the file and popped in another one. He checked the time. 1500.

A new face appeared, non-human and skeletal in appearance. The person seemed bored and confused _—_ but the flicker of fear in their eyes did not go unnoticed by Tom, not even through the poor quality of the projection.

“ _—want you to tell me if you recall anything unusual at the time of the Chancellor’s death.”_ That was the tinny voice of the interrogator.

A purse of the lips. _“Well…there was_ one _thing that struck me as strange,”_ the skeleton said. _“The Chancellor’s son was in the room when the Chancellor died when he was supposed to be locked in his quarters. Nobody noticed—the boy was so quiet, so calm even as—“_

A loud bang sent the ship rocking. Tom’s head snapped up and he lifted up, calling out Harry’s name. Upon receiving no reply, the cowboy hurried out of the room.

 _“—everyone was screaming. But_ I _noticed.”_

_“Do you think the boy had anything to do with it?”_

With a nervous gaze to the side, the skeleton swallowed. _“I saw Valentine hug the Chancellor; and minutes later, the Chancellor died. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. He’s just a boy. But I could swear that in those moments—“_

The image distorted, disappearing briefly.

_“—it was as if someone else was controlling him.”_

* * *

_Basilisk_ lurched forward with the impact of a hit. Unprepared, Harry’s legs gave away underneath him, causing him to knock his head against a counter with a sickening thud. He cursed, stumbling to his feet while the warning sirens blared. Odd bits and pots toppled out of the cupboards with thunderous noise.

A warning appeared on the ship’s displays: _Unauthorised Rear Door Access_.

 _Well, damn_ , Harry thought as he pushed himself off the floor. He bolted towards the control room and ducked behind his chair. His hands scrabbled at the locker in the wall before his finger slid around the smooth trigger of a gun.

Loud noises bounced off the ship’s walls. A particularly guttural voice stood out as it bellowed, “COME OUT, TOM! WE KNOW YOU’RE HERE SOMEWHERE!”

A familiar coat soundlessly swept past Harry. The translator stared after his employer incredulously as Tom punched in strings of commands into _Basilisk_.

“Eyes on the door, Harry,” Tom hissed lowly.

Properly chastised, the man in question turned his gaze back to the doorway. The thumps had come closer. A nasty sounding whistle pealed. The ship shuddered. Harry hoped nothing important had been damaged.

The sirens shut off and Tom straightened up, his mouth forming a dark smile. His hand grabbed Harry’s shoulder and lugged him out. The moment they stepped out into the hallways, a blast ricocheted near the doorway of the control room. Neither translator nor cowboy made a sound, both ducking.

A hand shot out and caught Tom by the bicep. The cowboy twisted, flicking out his gun in his other hand to fire in the direction of the hand at the same that Harry did. Hitting the mark true, the grip disappeared with a groan and its owner fell into view, two bullet holes dotting the corpse. Only one was aimed at the hand.

They scanned their surroundings before advancing, guns held aloft. A growl registered and a body leapt at them from around a corner. Harry stepped aside, bringing the hilt of his gun to the attacker’s head and bashing it in. Blood sprayed.

 _In the kitchen_ , Tom mouthed. His partner nodded. Something clanged behind them and they both whirled around.

Tom’s eyes narrowed upon recognition of their ship’s would-be hijacker. It was Alecto Carrow.

Her red eyes and long limbs were forever unmistakable. Even if they hadn’t lain eyes on each other in over a decade, Tom found he still recalled his encounters with her in great detail—and not fondly.

Carrow smiled toothily. “I heard you got your hands on some very vital intel, Tommy.”

Harry whipped his head around too slow as a masked person tackled him, arms engulfing the translator’s neck. They crashed to the ground heavily and Harry bucked, eyes flashing while he reached for his hidden dagger. His assailant’s eyes widened upon feeling the outline of the blade and flipped off, sliding back. They circled each other, sizing the other up. Eventually, Carrow’s sidekick reached for Harry and the grappling pair disappeared into the kitchen.

Tom gnashed his teeth, keeping his focus on Alecto Carrow. His former teammate and her motley crew were nothing to him. She smiled his way with her canines bared. It was her who made the first move;

She stepped forward, playing cards flying from between her fingertips. They arced, spinning dangerously after their target: Tom.

Tom dodged, leaning back as he shot each one, watching them disintegrate in messes of goo. He reloaded as he ducked under his coat and listened for the tell-tale fizzling. When it came, he knew the cards were laced with poison.

Carrow’s foot came crashing against his cheek and Tom grunted, flying back into the wall. He swung his arm round, the bayonet at the tip of his gun digging into the flesh of her leg. She snarled in response as she pulled back. The cowboy gathered up spit in his mouth before hawking in her face.

This, she had no tolerance for, as she aimed a punch to his temple. It didn’t connect but her next one did. Tom’s ears began ringing and he dropped to the ground, reaching to grab her legs. Carrow danced easily out of his grasp and retreated to an alcove where she fired five consecutive shots his way. The bullets exploded into small cards—each narrowing in on him.

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself as he ran and rolled into the kitchen. A card dug itself into his side.

Tom crawled behind a crate. He pressed his hands to the cut, staunching the blood flow as best as he could. His head had begun spinning already and he desperately hoped it wasn’t because of whatever blasted poison she’d used.

“Come out, Tom,” Carrow barked from the doorway. “I’ll make your end short and spend Boy’s bounty money well on your behalf.” She giggled and Tom imagined her red eyes were dilated. She got a kick off the bloodlust, the sick beast.

She tapped her cards against the walls as she circled the room slowly. The action made soft, tinny noises that didn’t reflect just how dangerous the cards were. Tom knew from experience. He dragged himself behind the table, breath held in his chest.

Carrow stopped. She growled and a deafening bang reverberated. Tom’s ears rang. Carrow wailed, and she began to toss random objects around the devastated room. The cowboy’s thoughts drifted to Harry—how was he? No more fighting could be heard. But he hoped for the best.

“Tom,” she lamented.

Reluctantly, Tom inched his way up, hand tight on trigger. His side burned as he did so but he sucked in a mouthful of air as his fingers trembled around his gun.

A gun shot clapped. Carrow wavered in the air before slowly, but surely, her body toppled to the ground. Tom held his breath.

A pair of dainty, blood-stained boots stepped over her still-twitching cadaver. It was Harry.

* * *

> **S52493:** _Murder by Boy on Vangelis; Ocean Unit at 1515_.

> **S52493:** _Prince Seju of Kypris._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From next week on, there’ll probably be one update per week. I’ve reached the end of what was already written and now am working from my plans. Thanks to the commenters and readers as always!
> 
> Next up: Tom is busy but invites Harry to his bed anyway.


	5. The Scourge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Alecto Carrow’s attack on the Basilisk and her crew, Tom and Harry find they need to reevaluate a lot of things.

**CHAPTER 5**

_“Silent things, violent chase  
We are dancing again”_

— Winter Bird, Aurora

There were moments in Tom’s life that struck him as odd. In those instances, time felt as if it had stopped, and the brilliance of each speck that made up the world shone brighter than before, a hazy curtain lifted. He forgot to breathe and in his heart he felt nothing. For once, his mind stayed quiet while it simply absorbed all that it could in those fleeting moments. When that time was over, wonder, and maybe a sense of melancholy too, filled him; or a mix of something else—a something else that could not be pinpointed in one word. In this space, he would realise things beyond himself.

Yet now, the caress of hands softer than his brought him out of a wide-eyed reverie, grounding in ways that only a person who has floated could treasure and, like from an inky darkness, Harry’s face came into focus. It was an underwhelming sight: a blood-splattered and gaunt face that stared down at him as hands checked his body for his vitals and for wounds. Wow, Tom thought as a lurching sting throbbed to life where he sluggishly recalled were his ribs.

“Harry,” Tom called through the fog. “You were brilliant.” He laughed.

An onslaught of dizziness warped his vision again and the cowboy fought the rising bile with curses on the tip of his tongue. All of which, a part of his thoughts regretfully noted, were greatly lacking in any kind of creative department. He gathered himself and rose to his full height. His face may have been pale from his loss in blood but his composure would not be caught lacking. Without a flinch, he bandaged himself from the first aid kit Harry brought him and refused more help.

He asked of Harry, “Is her ship still connected to ours?”

Yes, Harry responded after a cursory glance through a window. It was settled then. Tom picked up his carbine from the floor and slicked his hair back, his blood staining his face.

“This isn’t in your job description, Harry. You can stay here. But I’ll be paying her ship, the _Scourge_ , a visit,” he said. He looked to Carrow’s dead body.

He shot her again for good measure, her head lolling as he did, before he hefted her body over his shoulder like a burlap sack. Her body was still warm against his skin but that was quickly fading. The stench of blood filled his nostrils.

Tom bounded ahead, assessing the damage Carrow’s motley crew had done to his ship. It was severe but then again, destruction had always been Carrow’s specialty. The _Basilisk_ would need immediate maintenance before they could move again.

He burst through the airlocks and onto her ship, kicking and destroying the _Scourge_ like she had done to _his_ ship minutes earlier. How much time had passed? He checked the time: 1517.

The cowboy shot the only person left onboard the _Scourge_ without hesitation, pitying the poor guard, and blasted his way into all the rooms. He took nothing but he looked through everything. Carrow’s crew was living in squalor. The stench of unwashed invaded his nostrils and Tom knew that if he looked to the shadows, he might find stowaways of a rodent kind. Carrow herself seemed to have been doing well. In Carrow’s bed, a woman yelped when Tom burst through the door. She trembled and covered herself when he stepped in.

“Any affiliation with Carrow?” he asked, tapping the cadaver on his shoulder with his gun. His ribs protested at the movement.

The woman shook her head. Girlfriend? Fling? Sex worker? He didn’t care to know. Tom clucked his tongue before stepping aside. With a wide-eyed glance, she ran out as he searched Carrow’s room.

“Get off the ship! I’m burning it,” he shouted.

No information on Boy. No leads, nothing. Carrow’s performance was pathetic. Tom dropped her onto the main room floor. He took her watch, pulled out the reserve fuel for the engine, and doused everything he could. He lit her funeral pyre up before watching the flames rise higher and higher.

Alecto Carrow was dead. After nearly ten years, she would weep and grieve no more over the events on Old Terra, Earth. Amycus’ skeleton out there in the Orion arm of the Milky Way could rest now too. A younger Tom would have apologised for robbing Carrow of her vengeance but an older, jaded Tom knew he was not at fault for Amycus’ death even if his sister, Alecto, thought otherwise. Life had taken this turn. The Carrows were gone at long last.

* * *

“We got jumped,” Harry told the clean-up bots from the Council when they responded to the report.

In the background, the bodies of Carrow’s associates were being bagged and the floors swept clean of blood. Security footage extracted from the _Basilisk_ closed the case easily. Yes, they did get jumped. It was self-defence. Neither of them would be charged.

Harry stared out at the smouldering ship in the distance. The _Scourge_ was burning and Harry wondered when it would finally go out. He’d grown tired of watching the tiny flames lick at the windows. As soon as the ship burst, the heat would freeze over to leave yet another, unknown ship to drift amongst the stars. There had been an escape pod that left the burning inferno but that hadn’t been Tom. A survivor, thought Harry, yet why?

Above his head, their ship wasn’t doing amazingly. The _Basilisk_ was stranded, immobile, and half its crew was out of action. Tom had been delirious when he’d stumbled back onto the _Basilisk._

“Are they gone?” asked Hagrid, who’d introduced himself as Tom’s mechanic, through the com.

When he was sure the Council ship wouldn’t return, Harry lifted the mouthpiece to his lips and voiced affirmation. Hagrid thanked some god under his breath, the murmur barely carried by the wavering signal. What of help? Harry asked Hagrid.

“By 0300. Tom?”

Harry paused. His eyes drifted to the security cameras and he, barely a beat later, answered: “Tom will be fine.”

He propped himself against the counter of main controls, fingers flicking a far switch with ease. His gaze darkened. He will have to be fine, Harry thought bitterly. From the camera in Tom’s quarters, he could see his employer’s twisting form on the bed. Harry could heal him. The poison was fast-acting but Harry knew what could counteract it. To do that, Harry would have to take a big risk that he was unsure Tom was worthy of.

Without Tom, however, Harry’s rational mind reminded him, you’d be running again. It was safer to be someone who had something to do and somewhere to be. He needed this cover.

* * *

Tom dreamt he was back on the horse farm in Desert Jade. He was ten again. His mother was a building over, grooming the pedigrees, and Tom was in the pen with the other horses.

Things weren’t quite right. Instead of being in the open air, the pen was under a massive roof. The metal crisscrossed over his head and hung precariously above him in a shimmering dome. It looked like Hagrid’s warehouse roof had been surgically glued to the horse farm in a grotesque way. When Tom tried to fix it, his dream shifted and refused to comply to his dream self’s wishes.

He pushed through the horses, their sharp odor rising from them, and felt their fuzzy flanks under his fingertips as he moved onwards. They were gathered around one corner. Like running through quicksand, Tom felt himself trudge slower and slower towards the epicenter. His horses parted.

There, on the muddy ground, lay Nagini. Her midnight black hide was stained red and Tom watched as the blood trickled towards him. She whinnied weakly but it wasn’t her voice. It was the cry of Alecto Carrow, of Amycus Carrow, and of others. The sound kept morphing as Tom stood there, rooted to the floor. Then it became Harry’s voice. Pinpricks washed over his skin in painful stabs. Move, his mind told him. His dream didn’t let him and left him stranded in the noxious mud. The determination died in his veins as the earth sucked him down.

“Tom,” Not-Nagini cried out to him. Her body exploded into a burst of fiery flames. She was melting now.

He spun around to run.

“Tom!”

* * *

Blue eyes stared down at him when Tom woke up. They were framed by long tresses of white-blond hair and the sharp angles of Abraxas Malfoy’s face.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Abraxas greeted him.

“Abraxas,” Tom whispered. “You look disturbingly well.”

“So do you. But you could look better. Even so, I’m pleased to see you alive.”

Abraxas Malfoy set aside his cane and bent over to check Tom’s temperature. His hair brushed against Tom’s bandaged chest, which made the cowboy wrinkle his nose in discomfort. Abraxas didn’t notice. The elder man simply moved efficiently, changing Tom’s bandages, and rinsing down his wound with more antiseptic and balm. Tom suffered his pain in silence.

Abraxas said to him, “Your ship is in unspeakable shape.”

His aches lingered in his side, an annoyance, but the mention of the _Basilisk_ lifted Tom from his pain-clouded thoughts. “Hagrid will be aghast.”

“Already is,” Abraxas agreed. “But his worry outweighs his anger. You gave him a scare, calling him while you were injured.”

He couldn’t remember any of that but he supposed he must have. Harry likely had managed the rest of the exchange because Tom couldn’t recall staying awake for very long after returning from the _Scourge_. Harry probably also had had to settle the break-in with the Council. Since he wasn’t in handcuffs, Tom assumed that everything was fine.

“You’ll be staying with my family and I until you are well and Hagrid finishes the repairs. We’ve procured a charming new place on Eterna.”

Tom grunted. “I have no choice.”

Once again, Abraxas assented amiably, “No, you don’t.” He gave Tom’s side a gentle pat before leaning back, eliciting a grimace from the cowboy. “We’ve already made sure your translator has a suitable room. I thought you wouldn’t want us meddling in your things so we left your room here untouched.”

The cowboy was familiar with Abraxas’ generosity but even this was too much.

“Abraxas,” Tom said firmly. “What do you want? What’s the matter?”

His old friend startled but then laughed. Abraxas took his cane in his hands before pushing himself to his feet. Without Abraxas blocking his view, Tom realised he was still onboard the _Basilisk_ , in his own room. Its familiarity eased him. At least she wasn’t on the verge of blowing up, he thought. She wouldn’t. She was a good ship.

Abraxas toyed with his cane, contemplating. Then, at last, he said, “If you remember, Tom, my son is in the Council. He has a good position for himself but a less honourable circle of friends. I fear for his life. You’ll be well within a few days but I beg you to stay longer. This ‘Boy’ character…”

He stilled. Tom’s eyes narrowed.

“So you want me to protect your son?”

“No. That’s too presumptuous.” Abraxas chuckled uneasily. He folded his hands, clearly uncomfortable with what was on his mind. “Lucius has involved himself in strange things. The threat Boy poses is too unpredictable. I am employing the best I can to keep my son safe but I fear even the best may not be enough.

“I don’t ask you to protect him. What I do hope is that your presence will be a deterrent. You are known. You are a feared bounty hunter. If the worst happens… then at least, I will know I can trust someone to discover the truth.”

The atmosphere had very quickly turned grim. Tom shifted in his bed slightly. He winced and stopped moving. He kept his eyes on Abraxas, who looked haunted.

“You understand what you’re proposing?” Tom said quietly, teeth gritted. “Your offer is a great gift but also a great burden. What if I discover terrible things? Since you yourself suggest Lucius’ fate may be inevitable, you must have considered that Lucius, forgive me, might be deserving of Boy’s wrath.” He paused. Glanced around his room. “If Boy is a vigilante, then terrible things about your son may appear. It will be painful.”

Abraxas’ eyes hardened. “I am aware, Tom. I pray he remains alive and safe, as any good father would. If not… I will help you with everything I can. I must understand, for my grief. Closure is so strong a thing.” With the words leaving him, Abraxas sagged. Then he patted down his hair and his clothes, smiling at Tom. “For now, you must recover. My offer still stands for you and Harry regardless of my son. Tell me later what you decide.”

“It’s good to see you, Abraxas,” Tom murmured.

“Likewise, Tom. I’ll be outside. There’s a bot here to carry your things when you’re ready.”

Once the wealthy old nobleman left, Tom’s shoulders sagged. He ruminated over Abraxas’ words for ages and, once he’d gotten tired of his bed, rolled himself up and off.

He checked first that all the precious files were there and that not a page was missing. Once he was comforted, he loaded them onto a chair to mark the items that he would take with him and searched the rest of the ship for other belongings.

Abraxas’ bot chirped a hello at him and he nodded in response. Tom found his feet making their way to the control room, where he tentatively turned on the screens. Nothing happened. How cumbersome. The screen in itself would be a big repair, let alone the entirety of the _Basilisk_. He pursed his lips and made a mental note to check everything he missed later. On reflex, his hand flew to his wrist. The familiar shape of his cowboy’s watch alleviated his concerns for now.

He handed over his stuff to the bot. Sitting on a hook innocuously was his coat, Nagini. His hand twitched as he journeyed to collect it. Tom slipped the trench coat on and fastened it tightly around him, pain flaring when the sash rubbed against his wound. Ignoring his body, he called the bot to him and stepped off of the _Basilisk._

* * *

Tom watched the trip from the docks to Abraxas’ place with mild interest. The vehicle rolled over the fine earth with ease and he barely felt even the sharpest turns.

Terra Eterna was smaller than Via and Nova. It was the second smallest Terranean planet, only larger than Terra Suprema. Although, Tom mused to himself, Suprema wasn’t quite Terranean, was it? So Eterna could be considered to be the smallest.

On Nova, the ships that orbited the planet were difficult to spot from the ground. They were pinpricks that sometimes glowed at night. In comparison, Eterna was so small that it was not difficult to distinguish the decently-sized ships hovering in the upper spheres. If Tom squinted, he could vaguely distinguish some of the ships’ brands.

The Malfoy Estate was clearly newly refurbished and stood out even among the sumptuous manors littering Eterna’s lush landscape once it appeared in view. Malfoy Manor stood proudly in a sea of foliage, a finely decorated white building with strong columns and arches. It was a strange thing for Tom to be here. He was a nomad and such ostentatious homes were a point of puzzlement for him.

Tom stepped out of the shuttle gingerly, bots immediately dashing over to help support him. It made him feel weak but he accepted their help, not trusting his legs to support him. He was unsure how long he had been unconscious but he wasn’t willing to push himself too far.

Harry was waiting in the foyer. He looked well, skin a healthy tan, and with his green eyes sparkling. The glasses were back but Tom forgave them for obscuring Harry’s eyes because Harry was dressed in a very flattering emerald tunic.

“Tom,” Harry said, concern in his visage.

He rushed out to take over from the bots and soon Tom was propped up against Harry, his arm slung over Harry’s warm shoulders instead of cold metal. There was relief at the contact.

“Hello, Harry,” he said with a wry smile. “Eterna suits you.”

It did. Harry had looked like royalty standing against the stone embellishments of the Malfoy Manor. His poise was incredible and he looked like the handsome picture of a prince. Tom could still see the moment in his mind’s eye even though it was long gone. He suspected his sentimentality regarding the tableau Harry presented was due to the delirium his injuries were causing. Was this what retirement did to one? Tom was losing his edge or something. To be jumped and felled like that so quickly—embarrassing. No. Carrow knew him too well. It was that and bad luck. Even so, he couldn’t convince himself everything was fine.

When they reached the bedroom Tom would be occupying—across the hall from Harry’s—the cowboy was laid out on the bed once again. He looked up into Harry’s eyes before he fell into a long and dreamless sleep.

* * *

In his room on the upper floor of Malfoy Manor, Harry was watching the news as he worked on yet another one of the files Tom had brought from the Council archives. The din of English registered faintly in Harry’s ears while he scratched away at his screen, marking notes and typing down words.

_“On Friday, the tragic death of Prince Seju of Kypris occurred at Vangelis. It was 1515 and the prince had been partying with his friends in the Ocean Unit when tragedy struck. This is the second death at Vangelis in the last month.”_

Hmm. He tapped his stylus against his screen and stared at the reporter in the hologram. She was attractive. She had bright red hair and a professional appearance. Her voice was very distinct too. That charming lilt Harry could place to be from Via. The information she shared, however, was lacking. He switched the channel to a non-Terranean one.

_“—Kypris’ Seju, the second prince born to the current King and Queen, was found dead in the last cycle. It occurred at Vangelis and is presumed to be an accident thus far.”_

What a blatant lie. Everyone knew that it was “presumed” to be done by Boy. Harry rested his chin in his palm, watching the figures move across an invisible space. He’d listened to Kypris’ own reports earlier today and they’d been near catatonic.

Eventually, the translator paused the stream of chatter coming from the news broadcast and turned to reviewing the debates across the galaxy about Boy. Indifference. Danger. Threat. Abomination. Saviour. Nutcase. Well, it would translate to nutcase. He picked what he thought was interesting and saved them for review later.

A chime rang through the room to signal suppertime. He closed his screens and left his bedroom, taking the long stairwells down to the Malfoys’ dining room where he took his place at the table. Abraxas Malfoy, the patriarch, joined him soon after. His wife had died years ago so the seat to Abraxas’ left remained empty. Harry was sat a few places down on the long table and ate quietly with the aging lord. Lucius Malfoy and his own wife, Narcissa Malfoy, would join them at the manor the following day. Until then, the generous space at the dining table was empty.

“Evening, Harry,” Abraxas had said when he’d joined Harry at the table. His deep voice reverberated through the room, as empty as it was.

Harry smiled back, gently, and dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Evening, Lord Malfoy.”

On the first night of his stay, Abraxas roped Harry into a fantastical conversation of adventures. Ever since then, Harry found himself a captive audience to Lord Malfoy’s storytelling. He didn’t mind. The Malfoys were an old family… very old indeed. There was no particular fondness for aristocracy to be found in Harry, a long-held stance, but Abraxas was accommodating and kind. Even the relationship Abraxas held with Tom was one borne of whimsical circumstance and not nefarious causes. Harry appreciated this about Abraxas but he reserved his judgment for the man’s son. It was an idyllic thought to believe that goodness would be guaranteed even in the children. Heavens, thought Harry, even Lord Malfoy may not have always been a good man. _I don’t even know this man well_ , Harry thought. He’d solve that in due time.

 _There is so much that is unknown_. His eyes dropped to his untouched dessert. He lifted his fork, staring into the speckles in the wood of his utensil, and watched its prongs slide into the perfect slice of cake. The cream broke apart and the sponge divided. How many people were eating in tandem with him, unbeknownst to each other? How many innumerous more were existing, much like he was? Doing this or that and unknown to him. A whole galaxy within reach and yet Harry’s fingers could only grasp his fork at once.

He smiled kindly at Lord Malfoy as he listened to the lord’s tales and continued eating, but his unfaithful mind drifted once again into stranger thoughts. Harry wondered privately to himself about the galaxy beyond their windows. Past the ships stationed on the outer rim of Eterna, past the boundaries of this solar system, and beyond into the greater galaxy. _In another time… in another branch of the Milky Way, we could have been different people. I would not be Harry Potter and you could have been a different Abraxas Malfoy. Yet here we are. I am Harry Potter._ But he didn’t really feel like Harry Potter.

* * *

Tom expected the hard metal of his cot of his ship’s bunk beneath him when he was roused from sleep. Instead, he was enveloped in tender fabrics that caressed his skin. His mattress was fine and his covers were soft to the touch. Yes, he was at Abraxas’ place. He was on Terra Eterna. The reminder came in those many details around him.

Sitting on the dresser by his head was his breakfast and he could smell the sharp tang of cinnamon that had permeated his bedroom’s air. His drink had been sitting there a while, he understood. He pushed himself onto his elbows before reaching out to take the delicate cup in between his rough hands. It was tea. What kind, he wasn’t sure but he enjoyed it. He sipped it slowly, letting the taste sink into his tongue and up to his brain where it woke him up.

His side ached dully but he could move without pain and, therefore, he made it a point to do so. He ate his breakfast, cleaned himself up, and took a look at his bedroom properly. The stubble he’d gained over his days of mending was promptly shaven away once Tom caught sight of his reflection. Satisfied, he ran his hands over his smooth jaw as soon as he finished.

A knock on his door resounded.

“Come in,” Tom said from where he was in the bathroom. He towelled his face dry and stuck his head out to see who it was.

Harry let himself in, looking fresh, and seemed surprised to see Tom on his feet. “How are you feeling?” Harry asked his employer.

The cowboy gave him a crooked smile and his dimples surfaced. Harry’s worry ebbed away. He stood where he was, waiting for Tom to dress himself decently. Tom donned a simple outfit from the wardrobe, which Abraxas had filled with clothes. None of them were Tom’s own garments, which were still on the ship, but all of them were his size. The affordances wealth allowed people, Tom thought.

Harry didn’t shy away from Tom as he changed, unfazed by the nudity. He called a bot into the room, a rolling contraption with DIPPY displayed on her name tag. Tom eyed the bot curiously while it tidied up the remains of Tom’s breakfast.

“Mine is named Dobby,” Harry chimed in. “He’s got a bit of a personality for a bot.”

“Abraxas enjoys naming his things,” Tom said.

Tom didn’t find any appeal in naming bots but he could understand the reasons for doing so. It wasn’t for him though, as simple as that. He settled into his chair by the desk Abraxas had installed in the room. His heart thumped with the effort and he found himself winded already. Frustration ate at him.

Sympathetically, Harry came over to him with a smile. He held out an item and Tom took it, turning it over in his palm. It was labelled _Boy 1-10_. Harry had been productive while Tom had been out of commission, then. The translator deserved every drachma in his pay.

“Thank you, Harry,” Tom said. He leaned back into his chair, biting his lip. He sighed and eyed Harry. He gestured at the bed. “You can sit. I’ll have an extra chair brought in later. For now, the bed will do while we talk. I want to know what I missed in my convalescence.”

Once Harry settled himself in, Tom regarded him closely. He seemed more reserved and less chaotic. This was a change. Even the way he dressed seemed unlike the Harry Tom had witnessed on the _Basilisk._ Either this was once again Abraxas’ meddling or Harry’s own doing.

“After we were jumped by Alecto Carrow and her crew, you set fire to her ship—”

“I remember that,” Tom commented.

“—and you called Hagrid when you got back. He suggested contacting Abraxas Malfoy so I did and arranged for us to stay at his estate on Terra Eterna until the _Basilisk_ is repaired and you’re well.” Harry paused, visibly recalling the turn of events. “I called the council, they took away the bodies, and recorded the happenings. We’re clean. Hagrid decided to come over to Eterna himself to fix the ship. He arrived yesterday via teleportal; he refuses to stay with Lord Malfoy though.”

Sounded right. Tom added, “And you continued to work on the files I gave you.”

Harry nodded. “Yes. There wasn’t much to do until the _Basilisk_ was docked at Eterna.” His eyes widened. “Oh, there was also a murder by Boy on _Vangelis_ the day we were jumped. Seju of Kypris.”

Him too? Also at _Vangelis?_ Tom pictured Bellatrix being burdened by these murders with glee. Then reality struck and he held back an exhale of frustration. More work and he’d lost good time for making progress with his case. He would have to contact Severus as soon as possible. What a difficult situation he’d gotten himself into. His ship was damaged, he was injured and stranded solar systems away from _Vangelis,_ and he’d just been offered the trouble of protect Abraxas’ spoiled brat of a son.

“Thank you,” Tom repeated, earnest in his thanks. These were not platitudes; this was his sheer gratitude.

Harry was proving to be a reliable assistant because, at this point, he had performed well beyond the duties of a translator. Tom would raise Harry’s salary… hopefully. First, he needed to see the bill Hagrid would bring him for the _Basilisk_ ’s repairs. He winced. Clearly, his finances were also a victim to Boy’s deadly activities.

With a nod, Harry rose off Tom’s bed. Tom hesitated. What he was about to say was something the cowboy was unsure of, a compilation of gut feelings and snippets of memories from his bedbound state. Tom brought a hand to his bandaged side, head inclined to Harry.

“For this too,” he said, “You healed me, didn’t you?”

He wouldn’t ask how. There were worse things to be capable of and being able to heal someone from the brink of poison-induced death was not something Tom felt like investigating right now.

Harry froze in the doorway. He glanced back with that glittering green gaze of his. He said softly, “Yes, I did. I couldn’t let you die.”

In contentment, Tom smiled. He nodded, letting Harry leave, and spent the next few moments in thought. Death eluded Tom but remained a constant around him. A brush so close to that irreversible state, which was a sleep more potent than anything else, and reeked of a finality so fierce that Tom feared it. The prospect of his death rattled him despite his usual confidence in the face of danger. If the universe were under his control, Tom would fashion himself immortal—and not the kind of immortality that left one weak and wanting as the years passed. He wanted to be untouchable. For a hapless human, he still had grand visions.

He was safe for now. The hands of fate decided it was not yet his time. Another person may have rested some more, overwhelmed by these questions of existence, but Tom was not them. He knew what time meant for this gamble he’d made and the stakes were too high even for Tom’s growing sentimentality to intervene. He took in a deep breath, his muscles aching, and called Severus.

* * *

A procession of bedazzled shuttles slowed to a stop in front of the Malfoy Manor. From the first car, a butler stepped out in his black and white uniform. He snapped open a sun umbrella, which hovered in the air and followed the butler as he moved to open the shuttle door for its occupants.

First, a middle-aged man with white-blond hair stepped out. His features resembled Abraxas Malfoy’s strongly, differentiated only by the hint of his mother in the set of his deep grey eyes and sensuous mouth. Swathed in drapes of inky silk robes, Lucius Malfoy stepped onto the estate’s grounds with a sure step of his silvery shoes.

After him, his wife was helped out of the vehicle by the butler. Narcissa Malfoy gave a tight smile to the man but she snatched her hand back, slipping it into the pockets of her coat. Clutched tightly in her hands were her gloves, champagne gold, and she floated over to Lucius’ side as they rose up the front steps of the Malfoy Manor.

“I don’t understand why we had to visit. He always visits us at our home,” came a high voice from that first shuttle. He was its last occupant and he was Draco Malfoy, only son to Lucius and Narcissa.

Lucius gave him a scowl. “Come along, Draco. The air is good for you.”

Draco Malfoy came out of the shuttle without assistance, dressed in a smart black suit. He dismissed the butler and watched in disinterest as the bots carried their suitcases from the shuttles into the mansion. They bobbed and dipped under the weight as they rose up the steps, maintaining a distance from the centre of the steps where the Malfoys trod.

Draco swerved close to one, his grey eyes studying it, before he moved onto another. They all had names, he wondered. Their own bots didn’t, back home on Inner Sanctum. It came to no surprise to him that his grandfather named his bots. Lord Malfoy was eccentric by the rest of the family’s standards. Curiosity quelled, the youngest Malfoy went inside and heard as his parents greeted his grandfather with kisses and sweet words.

“They’re not working you too hard, are they?” asked Abraxas of Lucius.

Lucius assured him they weren’t and then complimented his father on his recent acquisition of the estate. When Narcissa spotted Draco loitering near the entrance, her eyes narrowed and she gave him a tight twitch of the finger. Get over here.

He complied and wandered over to the group. He kissed his grandfather on both cheeks. “You look healthy, grandfather,” Draco said with a genuine smile.

Abraxas’ eyes twinkled. “I know you all of you may have not wanted to be here,” he said, waving away Lucius when his son began spluttering, “But I feel safe knowing my beloved family is with me here and not in the chaos of the rest of the galaxy.”

He took Draco’s hands in his own and led him through the tall halls. Outside, the sun began its descent as the night flowers prepared to bloom. The sound of insects chirping and singing filled the silence the night created. Malfoy Manor lit up, its many lamps and lights coming to life, because with the absence of a moon, Terra Eterna was much darker than it should have been once the sun left.

The Malfoys were of a stock that prized the delicate handicraft of bygone human civilizations and kept it alive in their homes. For Malfoy Manor, Abraxas had commissioned craftsmen from Terra Via to decorate the ceilings with murals from all over Old Terra. Most of them were from the continent of Africa and South America, where the craftsmen’s ancestors came from, but Draco could see some from Europe and Asia too. These were personal pieces of art. Few of their guests from across the galaxy would know the origins of each painting and even Draco, with all his tutoring, found it difficult to place many of the motifs in each work of art.

When he looked around the rest of the new home, he saw more things but his mind was tired; it frustrated Draco not to know things so he gave his full attention back to his grandfather, whose face was radiant with happiness knowing his grandson was just as interested as he was in the culture of their species.

“Come, Draco. You’ll love the dinner Cook has prepared for you tonight,” Abraxas said gently.

They stepped into the dining hall, where Lucius and Narcissa were already seated (having skipped Abraxas’ tour). Abraxas took his place at the head of the table. Lucius sat at his right and Narcissa at her husband’s right. Draco saw there were three more places prepared. He knew the empty space by Abraxas’ left was for grandmother, may she rest in peace, but who were the others grandfather had invited?

Draco chose the seat next to grandmother’s spot and stared at the empty place by him. Narcissa mirrored him, her puzzlement obvious. Lucius was too stiff to broach the subject so, naturally, she had to speak up.

“Lord Malfoy, who are we waiting on?”

Abraxas said, “A friend and his friend.”

With that extremely enlightening introduction, the Malfoys dropped the subject. Only a few seconds later, footsteps echoed through the dining hall and a green-eyed man appeared.

“I’m so sorry, Lord Malfoy. Tom has only just woken up. He’ll come down shortly,” the mystery man said. He turned to Draco’s parents. “Senator Malfoy. Lady Malfoy.”

He did the customary bows and directed one to Draco as well. Draco was titleless but the respect deferred to him was well-advised. Was this the friend or the friend’s friend?

“Rise,” Abraxas said.

It was then that Draco saw the man’s full face. Draco barely felt the gasp that left him. His hands trembled as he stared in shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised myself not to post a chapter until the next is also done but CH6 tired me tremendously to write. Hence, CH5 is a bit late. Your comments have been so fun to read, thank you as always.
> 
> Next up: the prophecy is unveiled.


	6. Malfoy Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are revelations found in oneself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be longer but you'll see what is revealed and why more may have ruined it.

**CHAPTER 6**

_“Roll the window down, reach out, feel around for new life  
Damn, you and those green eyes”_

— God Save Our Young Blood, Børns

Harry observed the young son of the senator as his face ran through a dozen expressions. The boy eventually settled on being an ashen white, grey gaze glued to Harry as he took his seat. He decided not to sit next to Draco, afraid the boy might combust in proximity.

Narcissa Malfoy’s face was wrinkled in distress while she desperately sought to draw Draco’s focus away from Harry. _It was unbecoming to gawp like a schoolboy at a zoo!_ Her expression all but screamed at her son, who was blind to her urgent message of alarm. The situation entertained Harry and he shared a languid smile with Abraxas in a quick glance.

“Senator Malfoy,” Tom said, slicing through the awkward energy in the room with his cocky words. “Abraxas. Narcissa. Draco. What a lovely reunion.”

He appeared with roguish charm and had a sophistication to his demeanour that came from a worlds-worn life. Despite being of lower standing than most of the room’s occupants, Tom managed to still look down on them with an air of absolute confidence and control. The Malfoys, on the other hand, seemed fragile beside the cowboy’s brimming energy. Harry lowered his face as he hid his smile.

Narcissa’s back straightened, her beautiful face unfolding into a poised smile. “Tom Marvolo Riddle, a pleasure.”

“This is my good friend, Tom, and his translator, Harry Potter. I see you’ve met!” Abraxas said cheerfully.

“Hello, Mr Riddle and Mr Potter,” Lucius Malfoy said, rather stiffly.

“Draco,” Narcissa hissed. Her voice was barely audible but the room was so quiet that everyone heard. They all pretended they didn’t.

Draco’s cheeks flushed and, at long last, snapped back to his wits enough to say hello to Tom and Harry both. Their table was completed once Tom filled the last place by Draco’s elbow. He gave Draco a quirk of a dimpled smile. Tom couldn’t have been older than Draco by a few years… which meant that Harry was around Draco’s age. How was it that the senator’s son felt so much more juvenile in comparison to both of them?

They fell into a hush as their food was brought out and they ate. Conversation came in stilted attempts such as:

“I hear you study history, Draco,” Tom said with the sharp glint of a predator.

Lucius Malfoy nodded jerkily. “He studies post-unification history. Tell them, Draco.”

Draco came to life at the mention of his name but faltered at the sight of Tom’s challenging gaze. “Yes, I study post-unification history.”

Tom’s eyebrows raised and, to his credit, he made a show of looking impressed. Narcissa murmured something. Harry cleared his throat, working back a laugh. They left the topic of study untouched for the rest of the supper.

At long last, Senator Malfoy worked up his courage to reignite conversation, haughtily asking, “And may I ask the purpose of your stay with us on Eterna?”

Abraxas ran his index over his pursed lip and gave Tom a questioning look. A second later, whatever deliberation they’d been sharing was over, and Tom spoke up.

“My ship was damaged. Your father, in his generosity, offered us to stay with him until we are ready to leave again.”

Lucius hummed and hawed. “I see… and when do you think that may be?”

“Lucius—” started Narcissa softly.

“Hard to say,” Tom answered. “I’ve only just seen the full diagnostic for the ship earlier today. My mechanic will begin working tomorrow. I expect, oh, perhaps two weeks?”

“But I’ve invited Tom to stay longer than that. It would be rude for him to leave so quickly,” Lord Malfoy interjected.

With all the diplomatic charm, Narcissa said swiftly, “What an impressive mechanic! I hope we won’t get in your way with our stay. We’ll be here a month.”

“Visiting family, you see,” Lucius said.

Tom’s smile didn’t falter. “Indeed. I do see.”

Lucius’ brief confusion gave them all time to stifle their respective laughs. Harry coughed into his napkin. Tom’s eyes snapped to Harry, whose artful napkin placement covered a grin. The cowboy’s polite face for Lucius turned into a pleased smile for his translator.

* * *

“You’re a bounty hunter, Mr Riddle,” Narcissa said after dinner, ambling up to Tom on the porch. “What are you truly doing here?”

Tom gave her question some consideration and, pulling the cigar from his lips with a draw, angled his body to her. She stood at a healthy distance from him in her distinctly poised manner. It struck him again that Lucius meant nothing next to his wife. Her dignity and elegance far outshone the Senator’s grandiose airs. Tom knew it was Narcissa that was forging and maintaining all the familial connections.

“I won’t lie to you, Lady Malfoy. My being here may not be a galaxy-given coincidence. However, just as I said over dinner, Harry and I are here our ship is repaired and until I am well enough to travel. I was injured badly,” Tom answered.

She stared pointedly at his cancerous cigar. He tilted his head, daring her to challenge his words.

Narcissa turned her fair face towards the night sky. She said, “Your business is your own. I wish you well with your work. But I ask you to take no heed of my husband. He’s a foolish man.”

“I can’t do that.”

She startled. Tom could tell only because her fingers had fluttered involuntarily around the lapels of her coat. “How come?”

“Your husband may well be the exact prey my target is hunting,” Tom said lowly. He flicked away his cigar. It had burned too close to his skin without his attention.

“My sister sees something admirable in you, Tom Riddle,” Narcissa Malfoy said sharply, “Which is something I do not share with Bellatrix. You’re a cursed person. We have avoided each other until now and I intend for that to continue.”

The cowboy considered the stars and wondered which one was secretly _Vangelis,_ masquerading among the masses. If Bellatrix were here, what would she say in response to Narcissa’s cold attitude toward Tom? Beside him, Narcissa was shedding her outer coat.

“We’ll both be here a while. Might as well get acquainted,” Tom called out to her as she stepped away.

But she was already in the far gardens, her physique expanding as she moved. Soon, the massive figure of Narcissa Malfoy née Black, one of the three Black Giantesses, took up the landscape. When her eyes roamed over the grounds, they laid on Tom briefly and burned into him with their chilling blue.

* * *

Draco sought out Harry with dogged determination in the next week but Harry always made sure he was either locked up in his room or holed away in some remote part of the manor. Unfortunately, the Malfoy boy’s stubbornness won out and Harry was roused from his work one day to find Draco Malfoy bursting into the library alcove Harry forged from books.

“You,” Draco bit out, suddenly at a loss with Harry standing in front of him at long last.

“Can I help you?” Harry asked politely.

He set aside his work things and dragged his chair around to face Draco. The chairs made a mournful screech. They might as well talk, Harry thought. Harry was getting annoyed of looking for new spots to hide from Draco’s hounding.

“You vanished!” Draco spluttered.

Harry’s brows furrowed. “Yes,” he said with a quizzical lilt.

Draco dropped to his knees in front of Harry and clasped the translator’s hands. “You promised you’d write to me! I kept waiting for a message from you, anything—did what we have not mean anything to you?” Draco pleaded.

Harry reared back, snatching his hands away. Adrenaline pumped into his veins and, for a moment, Harry was ready to run. He was ready to fly through the windows and disappear.

Then, through the sludge of memories sitting in Harry’s mind, the moments Draco Malfoy was speaking about surfaced. Snippets of a summertime dalliance while the young heir was studying on Terra Via. Lots of laughter, and sweetness… but Harry’s mind quickly filled with a gut-wrenching unease. Yes, now he knew why there had been no messages.

Draco looked like his world shattered when Harry had recoiled from his touch. Harry dropped his hands and let them brush ever so slightly against Draco’s. What a mess and how unneeded this complication was.

“We can’t be, Draco,” Harry told the Malfoy heir.

“Is this not fate, Harry?” Draco insisted. “I’ve found you again. Don’t tell me things only to send me away, Harry.”

“Draco!” Harry said harshly. The boy flinched. “Your father and mother are in this manor with us. We are not alone. There can be nothing now, more than ever. I’m not even going to be here a long time.”

The young Malfoy’s face crumpled in disappointment. He wasn’t used to being denied, this much was obvious. Harry drew back. He stared into every imperfection and pore on Draco’s face and committed Draco’s face to memory.

Draco sneered. “You’re scared, Harry. You weren’t like this. I’ll show you that we can be together.” He stormed out.

Harry pitied him then. He thought to himself: _Oh, you really don’t know me at all._ If Draco thought that the source of Harry’s actions was fear… the translator swirled around in his chair. He devoted his time back to the texts in front of him. Harry had no time for a spoiled boy.

* * *

Tom felt that there was something very wrong with the murder of Prince Seju.

It didn’t matter which messages he received from Severus or if Barty’s newest files (sent digitally) insisted that nothing was out of the ordinary, Tom sensed that this recent murder wasn’t the same as the others.

“It’s your injury speaking, Tom,” Severus snarked.

Tom ran his fingers over his face and shook his head, an action his friend couldn’t see. He murmured, “No, I can tell it isn’t. My gut is telling me otherwise.”

“Then what do you suppose it is? A fake? The Council is the one leading the investigations.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m suspicious,” Tom said.

He was confident now. The inkling in his gut flourished into fully-fledged thoughts.

“The Council is bound to make a mistake at least somewhere. Either this is an unrelated event or one done to simulate an incident done by Boy. Although, I doubt it’s a copycat.”

If Prince Seju’s murder was high profile and inconspicuously accidental, it was easy to see why they would immediately attribute it to Boy. But Tom opened up the first interview on the deck and knew instantly it wasn’t authentic. There was a clear culprit. Sloppy work on the Council’s part.

Severus grunted. “I didn’t know you felt so familiar with Boy’s ethos already. Have you thought of applying that in your work?”

Tom tutted and said, “Oh, Severus. I’m injured, remember?”

As much as he itched to discard Prince Seju’s case, he kept it. The cowboy believed in the importance of anti-knowledge. Tom hummed to himself as he looked through the messages and files he’d missed.

His newest boon was that list he’d requested from Severus that tallied Council cliques. As soon as he spied a few names of Boy’s victims, he noticed upon deeper inspection that many of them had been acquainted with each other before death. Prince Seju was not there. He highlighted the names before running a comparison filter. The names of various Council members who were close with at least three victims on the list, he kept. His results were still extremely long but it helped. The Council was so massive otherwise.

“Well, what clique is this?” Tom asked.

Severus checked what Tom sent and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse. “Not a public one, in any case.”

A smile danced on Tom’s lips. “Do you think we could get away with hacking on an office?”

He scrolled through his results. One name stood out: Senator Lucius Malfoy. What had Abraxas said? Something about unsightly company or the sort. Boy’s _modus operandi_ was slowly becoming clearer. If Tom couldn’t find out how Boy attacked, at least he could track who Boy might attack.

All those aspiring cowboys who’d joined only after Boy’s bounty had gone public… Tom laughed. How far could they have gotten without this knowledge?

Tom had thrown out the possibility of Boy being a vigilante only at Abraxas as a warning but, perhaps, he hadn’t been so far off the mark. Bellatrix’s file hadn’t mentioned any terribly illegal or dubious activities but that only meant the victims’ involvement in something, whatever it was, had been hidden well. Twenty-six was too large of a pool of people to enjoy some innocent thing. A shared vacation spot or common friends meant nothing. For Tom, the treasure lay in whatever those people were engaging in together.

It had been masqueraded well. The news had been unable to link the victims since they’d spanned the galaxy, taking this or that shape as a crime. Boy was careful, meticulous. They were all chasing a phantom. But Tom could feel the case beginning to take corporeal shape beneath his touch. There was a thread, however subtle, and he was determined to unearth it.

* * *

“Have you ever feared a target of yours before?” asked Harry of Tom.

They were lounging in the sun, by Abraxas’ obnoxiously large pool. Although, with Narcissa’s presence as a giantess, the size felt less obnoxious and more practical. She lay in full-size by the waters and with her body turned to the sun’s rays. If she dipped so much as a toe into the pool, a sizeable ripple ran through the water.

Tom sat, legs crossed, at a coffee table. He sipped on his whisky and gave Harry’s question ample thought.

“When I was younger,” Tom answered. “I didn’t have the finesse at the time to attack others and protect myself simultaneously without intending to harm. Many bounties ask for the person to be alive, you see. It’s terrifying to try to catch a cornered fugitive.”

Harry was quiet.

“I haven’t asked how you felt, Harry, after taking a life. Alecto’s.”

Tom lowered his sunglasses and his dark eyes gazed upon Harry’s prone form. His translator, or assistant, had spilled blood so easily at Tom’s bequest. Even if Harry was ruthless when sparring… the cowboy knew many people who fought without killing. Friendly sparring meant little about one’s relationship with actual death. Perhaps, Alecto’s death wasn’t even Harry’s first. Tom felt unwell with the idea.

As wonderful as it had been to fight together like a well-oiled machine, a strong part of Tom yearned to keep Harry safe. He’d thought it was because he needed Harry healthy and well to perform his tasks but what cowboy prioritised an unknown employee’s health before his own? _Your own jeopardy could have cost you this bounty,_ Tom’s mind whispered.

“Can you handle it, Harry?” Tom pressed. His curiosity tore into the soft shell of his concern, spurning it in favour of his fascination. “If things turn worse, Harry, could you remain in my employment?”

Harry’s form was rigid. It was in conflict with the relaxed bliss of Abraxas’ lush gardens and pool, and Harry looked like a figure removed from time and space. When Harry’s lovely eyes lifted to meet Tom’s, the cowboy felt his breath catch in his chest.

That green swirled and spun, pulling Tom into a spell unlike any other. There was so much to be said in a slow blink from Harry or a glance to the side—each motion revealing a flash of vibrant viridity that stole all sense.

Harry said, “Maybe.”

Which made Tom long for a ‘yes.’

* * *

Tom appeared like a dark apparition in the doorway of Harry’s room.

“Hello, Harry,” Tom said with his usual charisma.

It felt off. There was missing verve to Tom’s stance as he swept into the bedroom. Harry stilled from where he was sat on a sofa.

“The repairs on the _Basilisk_ are nearly complete. We’re ready to leave whenever.” Tom dragged his eyes over Harry’s sprawled files and instruments on his desk. “I have permission to leave from Abraxas’ doctor.”

“But?” Harry prompted.

Tom smiled, teeth glinting under the ambient light. “As you know, we’ve been invited to stay longer. I’ll be taking up Abraxas on his offer.”

Harry felt uneasy. They’d be directly interfering with the Malfoys’ family vacation. Harry didn’t even know what he would do with all his free time once he’d finish the work Tom gave him. Staying longer offered too many chances for Draco to wreak some form of havoc.

“Harry?”

“Yes?” He snapped up.

“I’m missing a file. It was in the crate from the Council archives. The one about Gryffindor, if you recall.” Tom’s eyes rested heavily on him. He continued, “I need that one particularly soon.”

Harry swallowed. “I’ll have it brought to you first thing tomorrow.”

He watched the cowboy slip out after a goodnight and slumped back against his chair. Tom enjoyed being cryptic and Harry, though familiar with being dismissed, was left to feel on edge each time. Tom kept throwing around demands like that and leaving. He was dancing on a tightwire above a vat of certain destruction. Harry pulled his knees to his chest, rubbing his neck in thought.

After he spent too long sitting in the dark, Harry stepped over to his closet where he’d tucked away the crate. He stacked the files carefully to the side and pulled out the one Tom had requested, which he’d wrapped with cloth. _Gryffindor [Prophecy, Boy-Who-Lived]._ His throat prickled with the promise of tears. He cradled it to his chest all the way to his screens.

When he finished translating the prophecy of the boy-who-lived late into the night, Harry thought he might cry. All the mindless familiarity of the words vanished before him and he was left to confront reality. He lifted his fingers to his eyes and was disappointed that they were dry.

He held out his hand then, watching it catch the blue light from his devices. He imagined it entering his skin and scattering through the cells that made up his existence. It was a pretty distraction.

Tired, Harry dropped his hand. He rose and stepped to his mirror. He called into mind the afternoon in the library when Draco Malfoy’s face had been so close to his. Harry pictured the youth’s pallor and the turn of his wrist.

As he gazed into the mirror, Harry’s face rippled and soon the inky black curls on his head melted into icy blond tresses. His darker skin paled into white and those green eyes he’d grown used to as Harry Potter vanished beneath the blue of Draco Malfoy’s.

Soon, it was Draco Malfoy that stood before the mirror. He was still clad with Harry’s clothing and they were ill-fitting, too loud for the skin tone Draco had. He turned in place.

* * *

Abraxas took Tom to check on Hagrid. With the force of a thousand moons, Hagrid came barrelling into Tom for a crushing hug. A hug which, very quickly, turned into a captive hold. There were tears shed and Tom had to wrench himself free before Hagrid’s meaty arms squeezed him into a pulp.

The mechanic showed him around his temporary workspace on Terra Eterna and brought him aboard the _Basilisk._ Her reworked metal shone anew. Gone were the hideous dents from Carrow’s crew and the lights didn’t flicker even once while Tom looked down the repaired halls. Tom marvelled at Hagrid’s quick work once more.

“I’m most interested about the control room,” Tom mentioned after he gave Hagrid his due congratulations.

Hagrid’s frown deepened. “Thought yeh might. Was completely bust when I set ter work.”

They stepped into the control room, which lit up with its generously bright lamps. An addition of Hagrid’s doing, Tom remarked. He’d need to break some of them later to save on lighting. Hagrid stayed back as Tom leaned over the controls and switched the main machine on. Immediately, the screens came to life. They watched, breathing at a standstill, for signs of digital damage before they celebrated.

“Everythin’ should be there an’ workin’ except fer a few hours of security footage.”

It was now Tom’s turn to frown. He repeated, “A few hours.”

He pulled up the files from the cameras and skimmed through them. Indeed, there was a very noticeable gap from shortly after Tom came back from Carrow’s ship and when Abraxas arrived to help them. The cowboy ground his teeth together and felt his muscles bunch up.

All his worries of betrayal came flooding back to him. He had been on his ship, unconscious and injured, while Harry roamed freely during a conveniently-timed black-out. Tom compared the last shots before the cameras cut with the ones immediately once the cameras came back up on. His things seemed untouched. Only he seemed to be different. He was in Nagini’s coat in his bed, passed out, and then he was bandaged, resting peacefully.

He saw Harry at the controls, face open with worry, and then nothing. When things returned to normal, the cameras were pointed on Harry sitting quietly by Tom’s side. The cowboy could remember nothing about those missing moments. Concern dawned on him like a dark crusade, worming its way into every crevice of his being.

* * *

_In fire and time, a planet plunged upon strife_

_May find hope yet aglow_

_For he-who-lives will bear strength sown with sorrow_

_To grant the boy king victory in afterlife_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: life likes to change its rhythm and for Harry, that means a date in the middle of bounty hunting.


	7. Malfoy Manor II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More is learned about Gryffindor and Harry takes a good look at Tom's physique.

**CHAPTER 7**

_“And stranger, if you get a notion  
That you'd like to love me  
Well, just do what you feel”_

— Mermaid, Tatsuro Yamashita

Hmm, Tom thought to himself as he read the lines of the prophecy under the sweet morning sun. He wasn’t quite one for poetry or even prose so he read the words with the eyes of a disillusioned man.

“It rhymes,” he commented, at a loss.

He threw it aside onto his bed in annoyance. Bellatrix was playing games with him. The prophecy barely mentioned ‘Boy’; it mentioned a boy king.

No harm in entertaining her, his mind coaxed. She’s rarely wrong.

Tom already had his lead, he snapped back to the traitor in his thoughts. Regardless, the cowboy found himself searching information on Gryffindor. He knew little about the planet except that it had been destroyed shortly after the New Earths were established.

He scrolled through the information his search yielded and registered surprise when he saw Draco Malfoy’s name pop up. Ah, yes. The Malfoy heir studied post-unification history. How droll. Why had the heir to a respected family chosen to study about such an obscure part of galactic history? He clicked.

Tom followed the rabbit hole of discussions and came out the same man, the only change being a slightly better opinion of Draco Malfoy. The fish-faced boy from dinner and the snooty ice prince from occasional meetings turned out to be quite eloquent in writing. Of course, it helped tremendously that Draco was writing about a topic that Tom was interested in.

He chuckled at the photo Draco had on the site of his Terra Vian educational institution. The younger heir had a startled look, as if he hadn’t known the photograph was being taken at that moment. Amused, Tom scrolled further.

The name Harry Potter stared back at him.

Tom straightened in his seat. He got up and looked out of the window to look for Harry, who had been outside just earlier. The cowboy nearly reeled from bewilderment when he was Harry and Draco with their faces close together in discussion. He glanced back to his device. His eyes narrowed as he took in the information being presented to him.

What was this madness?

A chime came from his watch. He shut it. He grabbed Nagini and stormed down the stairs to where Harry and Draco were. They knew each other. From university. Yet Harry never said anything. Draco was, well, less subtle but Tom had assumed it was simply the shock of being so close to lowborns.

“Hello, Tom,” Harry said serenely.

“Hello,” he parroted.

Draco gave a nod. “You’re here to talk about Gryffindor, aren’t you?”

Tom stood there and was taken aback. For the first time since Tom encountered the young lord, he could feel the Malfoy upbringing in Draco. Draco bent over and gave Harry a kiss on the cheek which made Tom’s nose crinkle in disgust. Still, he knew to seize opportunities. He nodded, giving Draco a smile.

“That’s right.”

“Then walk with me,” Draco said.

He turned on his heel and led the way. Tom shot Harry a look but his translator was quiet, gaze downcast, and Tom was left to follow the young Malfoy down the winding corridors of Malfoy Manor.

* * *

Harry dozed lightly in the comfort of the shade. From time to time, a breeze washed over his area and he felt his curls ruffle from nature’s gentle caress. The sun was bright and hot where it touched his skin through the garden’s copious trees.

The _toc-toc-toc_ of neat heels piqued his anxiety and Harry’s eyes flit open to Draco Malfoy approaching him in riding gear. Harry didn’t particularly want to move but he rose from his chaise-longue to greet the Malfoy heir properly.

“Would you care to join me for a ride, Harry?” Draco asked impatiently as soon as Harry finished.

Harry stared incredulously at Draco and gestured to his own attire. “It’s my day off.”

The Malfoy heir found this interesting. “That cowboy finally finished harassing you with his work? That’s perfect.”

“Draco, he’s my employer,” Harry retorted.

Draco stood between Harry and the stunning view of the distant hills. He procured a slim pen before passing it into Harry’s reluctant hand. Harry took it, feeling the weight of the pen. The object summoned unbidden memories into his mind from Harry Potter’s past—they were intimate, special. Harry frowned down at the polished metal. He passed the pen back to Draco.

The pen didn’t belong to that moment. Such an object did not belong to this version of Draco, with his hard riding boots and crop, nor did it with Harry in his pool-lounging ensemble. Malfoy Manor could not have been further from Terra Via’s university libraries than a Council outpost in the outskirts of the Milky Way. Harry almost felt sorry for the pen, that it had gotten so lost in the galaxy.

When he glanced up, it was into Draco’s open face. Harry knew it too well now. He had lived that skin, albeit briefly. His body burned with the implications and his eyes stole away for comfort. His gaze landed on the window above him. The hum of Tom’s deep voice filtered out in snatched snippets from the open room.

Draco’s face hardened. Harry didn’t notice but he felt the air turn uncertain. _I’m not that boy you knew on Via,_ Harry wanted to say. But he thought of his employer and the way Tom evaded things by making demands that stole attention.

“Tom is looking for a specialist on Gryffindor history,” he heard himself tell Draco. “I don’t think anyone else knows as much as you do. Could he work with you?”

Draco tapped his riding crop against his thigh. “Are you asking me for a favour, Harry? Or is this a business request, Mr Potter?”

“It’s both,” Harry admitted.

Draco turned aside. They both knew he was working on his composure. Eventually, the Malfoy heir let out a sigh and also looked to Tom’s room.

“Why ask me?” Draco asked in a thin voice.

“Because you’re the best.”

Harry closed his eyes and thought to Hogwarts and its four forms. Even Dumbledore, for all the Chancellor’s prowess with Gryffindor practice, didn’t comprehend Hogwarts’ other Kingdoms. Those glorious kingdoms and their customs only lived on now through an old man’s bigoted spiritual rambling. But there was hope.

Draco had taken it upon himself to teach himself the ways of Gryffindor and the ways of the other Hogwarts forms, to learn of the once-magnificent kingdoms. To Harry, it struck him as endearingly odd. Some people would not let the past die and were willing to breathe new life into it.

“You could do it too—”

“I’m not the one who dedicated all my studies to it,” the translator interrupted. This discussion was taxing now. He didn’t know how long he could it up.

The Malfoy said, “And what do I get?”

Harry threw him an exasperated look. “You’re a scholar. Talking about the subject of your research is the greatest satisfaction you’d have.”

Although Draco couldn’t argue, he wasn’t pleased but, as they sat there together, Draco eventually warmed to the idea by the time Tom came.

* * *

The Great Tragedy of Hogwarts was not a subject Tom learned as a youth. Tom hadn’t attended traditional school too long since he’d been required to drop out to help his mother out on the farm. He’d learned other things though and, as Draco strode on in front of him, Tom recollected more and more about the past he’d been determined to leave behind.

“You ride?” Tom asked.

Draco glanced back and nodded curtly, his riding slacks noisily brushing together. They were not in a part of the manor Tom had been in before. This wing was likely the Malfoys’ personal quarters. It was more opulent and familial.

The young Malfoy heir opened the doors to his room, which burst open against a draft. The action sent a gust of wind through the bedroom and the curtains rose up in waves of brilliant green. Books fluttered through the room where they were left askew. Draco’s bot, Clancy, chirped and immediately set out to clear an empty spot for the two of them to sit.

Tom lowered himself onto a hard-backed chair, needing to fan out Nagini around him in order not to chafe the leather. Draco foraged through his things and returned to Tom with his screens and projector.

“What are you most interested about?”

Best to start simple. The cowboy pulled up his watch to send the translation of the prophecy to Draco.

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Oh, this is an interesting translation. Harry did it?”

“Yes,” Tom said matter-of-factly, “I’ve been told this prophecy is rather important. I don’t know much about Gryffindor or prophecies.”

Draco eyed the cowboy’s glinting weapons and dark eyes, shivering. Of course, the man didn’t. What use were prophecies for the average bounty hunter? He rationalised. He read over Harry’s prophecy, admiring it, and projected it on the wall between them. Then he pulled up a map of the planet Hogwarts with Gryffindor highlighted in red. The kingdom spanned most of the planet.

“This prophecy dates back to a hundred and fifty years ago. It was announced on the birth of the twin princes of Gryffindor, Prince Nevi and Prince Hadr. We call them Neville and Hadrian for simplicity.”

“Nevi and Hadr seem simple enough,” Tom pointed out.

Draco shrugged. “We’re humans. We like to change things to fit us.”

Tom grunted.

Two charming hologram profiles appeared before them. Both were of good-looking male youths but the one on the left had Tom gawking.

“Yes,” Draco said smugly, “Harry looks a lot like Prince Hadrian Gryffindor, doesn’t he?”

“Is that why you fancy him? Because he looks like the dead prince of the lost civilisation you’re obsessed with?” Tom asked.

Draco’s cheeks turned ruddy. “Harry’s more than that.”

The cowboy smiled and said, “Yes, he is.”

Flustered, Draco quickly sent away the images and brought up the prophecy. Its lines glowed in front of them: _In fire and time, a planet plunged upon strife / May find hope yet aglow / For he-who-lives will bear strength sown with sorrow / To grant the boy king victory in afterlife_.

“In Hogwarts, prophecies were revered. They believed that some aspects of life and death were inescapable and that to face them was true courage. For the Gryffindor Kingdom, the oracles were consulted on important dates related to the royal family,” Draco said. “Like I said earlier, this particular prophecy was from the birth of the twin princes. They were the last born in that line.”

Tom said, “And why would this one be of more importance than another one? Surely, other prophecies were announced later and earlier too.”

“Yes, but many of us scholars believe this one hasn’t fully come yet to pass and…” Draco paused here and leaned in to whisper, “I believe one of the princes may still be alive.”

“Really? Is it Harry?” the cowboy whispered back with glee.

Draco hissed. “Stop! Yes! Maybe? No.”

Tom leaned back with a smile on his face. He entertained the notion of Harry being the prince and found he wasn’t mad at it. Draco may be foolish but he did have some taste.

“Anyway, the planet perished a little over a century ago in 2201. A rogue scientist who was seeking to develop a new form of the teleportal set up his lab too close to Hogwarts and when a botched attempt lashed out, the kingdom of Gryffindor was destroyed.”

“The fire from the first line of the prophecy.”

“Likely.” Draco was excited now. “There were no survivors based on the reports from the Council but the prophecy suggests otherwise.”

Tom was less impressed than Draco was with the deduction. He said, “So you think the he-who-lives and the boy king are the same and must have survived?”

“I don’t believe such a prophecy can be interpreted so bluntly. There are so many interpretations. They could be the same but they could also be completely different.”

The cowboy rubbed his temple and slapped his hand down onto Draco’s shoulder, stilling him. “I have one last question before you ramble to your grave.” He smiled and said, “If Bellatrix gave you this prophecy in relation to Boy, what would you think?”

Draco paled at the mention of Bellatrix before paling even further when the gravity of Tom’s question fully realised itself. He glanced back to the hologram of Hogwarts and the dwindling kingdom of Gryffindor. “I’d think that she might be suggesting Boy might be the one in the prophecy. The last survivor from Gryffindor.”

Wasn’t that a delightful idea? Tom felt every nerve inside him come to life in excitement.

When he left Draco’s room shortly after, Tom bumped into Lucius Malfoy, who gave the cowboy a sneer. Delightful, thought Tom.

The Senator ducked into his room but not before Tom caught a snippet of a deep voice from the inside.

“— _enator Lin, have you checked on the labs?_ ”

“I completed that. Lin is in hiding,” Lucius said quickly.

Tom brought his eye to the cracked door and counted the faces displayed on the screens. 1, 2, 3… in total 25. There was no identification to be found but some of the grainy expressions confirmed what Tom had suspected: a secret league within the Council. Like the threads of a spider’s web, the whole structure could be gleaned in the paths of careful construction.

* * *

The buzzing on Tom’s watch refused to cease until he eventually picked up, irate, and barked out, “Yes, Severus?”

“Tom, have you seen what I sent you?” Severus asked in an unusually urgent tone.

Tom frowned. “No, tell me.”

“It’s about Luna Lovegood from _Ataraxia._ She was never on the ship. She’s been on Terra Via all this time.”

Tom snapped to attention and he abandoned the research he’d been doing in favour of pacing around the room. He shut his windows, hastily muttering to Severus.

“How did you check? What did you find?”

Severus answered, “There was that explosion in Via’s Gourd City a year back. Luna Lovegood has been in a coma until now.”

“And why didn’t we know this?” Tom demanded.

“They didn’t take her to any hospitals. They treated her at home. Dubious method at best, but she woke up.”

The cowboy didn’t even know what this meant. Who had he met on _Ataraxia_ then? She’d looked exactly like the Luna Lovegood from the files and things like ears and a tail were difficult to fake. He grasped at his hair and then dropped his hands to his waist, fisting his coat’s leather. Nagini was his anchor. He took in a deep breath to settle his fraying nerves. Whatever was going on in the galaxy felt so far from him.

“Set up a meeting with her for me as soon as I get off this planet.”

* * *

Harry lay his head against the window of the vehicle, watching the shapes of the passing scenery morph by. Draco was seated in the drivers’ place and was smugly driving them around via. There wasn’t much to do otherwise. Even though they were moving, Harry felt trapped in place.

“See that, Harry? That’s the estate of the Soks.”

He yearned for Draco to stop talking but he knew it was unfair to make such a demand. Draco wouldn’t understand that Harry Potter was dead, not when Harry Potter was in front of him. There were so many variables in these interactions. To play the Harry Potter from Terra Via, to play the cowboy’s trusty translator, or to be himself?

The last option stole the breath from him and left him lost. When had he begun to think of being himself again? The him that existed died long ago when his planet had been scorched.

“You know me so well,” Draco said after Harry eventually responded with a snarky comment. “Nobody else dares to talk to me like that.”

Harry felt like screaming.

At long last, the shuttle rolled to a stop in front of Malfoy Manor and Harry all but rushed out. He stumbled and practically ran up the front steps, stripping away the scratchy clothes Harry enjoyed.

“Harry.”

He met Tom’s curious, calculating stare. Harry’s heart beat in his chest with ferocity. Yes, this was what was familiar. Tom looked at him with the eyes of a cautious man who could see him for the flighty danger he was. This wasn’t a normal employer-employee relationship, Harry thought as he took Tom’s outstretched hand. _He looks at me like I’m a foe on the battlefield worth considering._

“I feel like sparring. Would you be up for it?”

“Yes,” Harry immediately replied.

They fought then and it was vicious and brutal. Tom did not hold back, charging for Harry as if he wanted to hurt and kill. But every time Tom did catch him, he let Harry go so that they danced around each other again. Harry had more finesse yet echoed Tom in that raw brutality. By the time night fell and the sparring hall was pitch-black, they were both littered in marks.

Harry said, “You kept up well. Sometimes you’re a bit slow but you’ve been bed-ridden so you’ll get your stamina back up.”

Tom liked to grin every time Harry commented on something and this time was no exception. His teasing smile pierced straight into Harry’s soul. _Run. Run,_ his lizard brain chanted. It could have been a message for himself or for Tom.

Each time, Harry gave in and stayed.

* * *

“Hello, Harry,” Narcissa said with a kiss to his cheek. Harry mirrored her actions and watched as the Senator face wrinkled in disgust. Lucius Malfoy was not nearly as friendly to Harry as Draco and Narcissa were.

“You were saying you need an interpreter to help you with that call of yours, Lucius,” Narcissa said. “Harry here has offered most graciously to assist you.”

“But he’s the translator of some cowboy. He won’t do.”

Lucius sniffed. Abraxas looked up from where he was scrutinising a game of chess and summoned his daughter-in-law over to resume playing. Harry did the customary salutation to the Senator but was ignored.

“Lucius,” Abraxas interjected, “Tom would never hire someone less than capable. Harry is skilled as both an interpreter and translator. If you hadn’t suddenly moved up that meeting, you’d have your own interpreter.”

The Senator reluctantly acquiesced, beckoning Harry to follow him from a distance. Harry kept his mouth shut as they slipped down the manor’s numerous halls into a secluded room. Its walls were covered in screens which came to life as soon as Lucius stepped inside.

 _“Welcome, Senator Malfoy,”_ the interface’s robotic voice chimed.

Harry sat in the seat reserved for Senator Malfoy’s interpreter. It was stiff, uncomfortable, and Harry watched with vague envy as Lucius melted into the velvety lining of his chair. One by one, faces appeared on the screens.

Although Harry did his best not to appear too interested, he regarded the people in the conference call with growing distaste. It was only distance and etiquette that saved them now from his wrath. He kept his head lowered.

“The search is yielding no results,” a gruff voice said.

Lucius spoke, “Those signed onto the bounties are buffoons. None of them know what they’re looking for. We should release more information.”

“No! If we do, the others in the council may catch on. We can’t have that. No-one can find out.”

Murmured assent resounded in the call.

“How do you suppose people catch an elusive target if they don’t understand why it’s elusive?” Lucius hissed.

“Senator Malfoy, how do you propose we’d release such sensitive information without receiving undue attention?”

A taut voice said, “If such things continue, there will be more problems than just a runaway test subject. Having lost members of our association, we are more vulnerable to being discovered. We should replace those that have been felled by Boy.”

“But—”

“Do not speak over me, human!” Judge Racul bellowed over the line.

Lucius shot Harry a glare as he was forced to translate the harsh words from the giant. Harry wanted to pummel him there. Angry at the messenger? Could the Senator be any bit feebler?

“Get out,” Lucius snapped at Harry.

Harry didn’t need to be told twice.

* * *

“Your son is rather brusque,” Tom remarked to Abraxas at afternoon tea.

“No, that’s you, Tom, my dear. Lucius is simply inefficient in social situations,” Lord Malfoy said easily.

Tom waved his hand over his teacup, watching the heat uncoil in steamy tendrils, and took a sip. His eyebrows jolted upwards in mild surprise at the taste and he uttered a compliment to Abraxas, who took it with a good-natured smile.

Abraxas said, “I want to know that my worry for Lucius is an old man’s paranoia and not a founded fear.”

“You’re not a regular old man,” Tom said. “You’re too astute to be wrong about these things.”

Too much time had passed since Tom and Harry had touched down at Malfoy Manor in an untimely manner. This was inching well into the third week. The cowboy and his translator were both running out of things to do. Harry had even had to take up on Draco’s excursions. Tom pitied him.

Abraxas sighed and fidgeted in his seat. Tom and Harry needed to move soon. They couldn’t with the looming threat of murder to think about. To do a favour for his old friend’s son had not been on Tom’s agenda. As soon as the ticking bomb on Lucius’ life either imploded or was defused, they were all at a standstill. Everyone in the household could sense it.

In the last few days, Abraxas had grown more and more nervous. He was agitated. Abraxas confided in Tom that he believed this was due to Lucius’ less-than-stellar activities.

 _It’s not looking good, Tom,_ Abraxas had said in a hushed voice. His eyes had darted around, the wrinkles in his face illuminated by the dimness, and Tom had wanted to smite Boy there and then; for if Tom were to eliminate Boy for any reason, it would be for distressing his friend so. An unexpectedly sentimental reaction, Tom realized.

Now, recalling this moment, Tom did not think the same. The bounty would be higher if he brought Boy back alive. He took another sip of Abraxas’ fragrant tea.

“Narcissa agrees with me bringing him here,” Abraxas said.

Tom hummed in lieu of agreement.

“Harry is with Lucius right now. I hope you don’t mind. Lucius’ own interpreter was unavailable.”

“I’m happy to be able to serve the Senator,” Tom answered.

He set down his cup and rested his hands in his lap. His thumb ran over the strap of his cowboy watch back and forth. Back and forth. Over and under.

“You know things, Tom. What are you not telling me?” asked Abraxas.

The cowboy laughed loudly. When he stopped, his friend was look at him incredulously. “Abraxas,” Tom said, “I know a version of things that likely is less helpful than your own. I know about as much of Boy as the rest of the galaxy.”

“That’s a lie, Tom.”

“I’m a bounty hunter, not a psychologist,” Tom retorted.

“What does your job or title matter? I’m asking you as a friend and a troubled father.”

A bot cut in and said, “Sirs, the horses are ready.”

Tom balked. “Horses?”

Abraxas looked away at a faraway floor tile, hanging his head. “Thank you, Flopsy.” Then, to Tom: “I’ve never ridden a horse. I was hoping you could show me while you’re here.”

As Flopsy wheeled away, Tom stared at Abraxas Malfoy. “From which farm?”

“A horse leather one, ah—”

The coat the cowboy bore seemed to burn into his skin. “On Terra Nova?”

“No. Via.” Lord Malfoy looked aged. “You can ride if you like. I have no mood for it momentarily. Good night, Tom.”

Relief put out the Tom’s panic. He relaxed and saw his friend down the winding halls.

“Good night, Abraxas.”

Tom crossed the yard with Flopsy close beside him to the stables. There were two horses leashed on a pole outside. One was a golden brown and the other was a dreamy black. He was ready to mount the black mare when he remembered how ill-dressed he was.

In his quick walk of shame back to the manor, he heard a shuttle stopping close by and Narcissa’s voice calling out to someone. Once inside, he saw someone hurriedly rush to the Malfoy’s wing while Narcissa whispered instructions to them. Was that the belated interpreter?

He shed Nagini in the safety of his room before emerging again to the grounds in riding garb. The boots on his feet were new and finely made whereas the clothes were comfortably fashioned to Tom’s exact measurements. Tom looked like the picture of a dashing aristocrat off to play polo. He was young, handsome, and, as he took the young mare’s reins into his hand, devastatingly skilled. It didn’t take an expert to know that Tom’s movements were second nature to him and the horse felt it too.

However, between you and I, Tom was nothing like an aristocrat. Even that way he handled the mare was lacked the elegant poise of the upper-class riders. Tom rode in a utilitarian way. It was beautiful no less, yes, but it could not be called refined.

At the edge of the garden, Harry watched Tom. The cowboy was off, breaking into an easy trot. Tom guided his mare into a few easy laps. Then, as he passed the gardens, that trot quickly became a gallop as rider and horse became a black streak zipping across the grassy fields surrounding Malfoy Manor.

“How long have you been riding?” Harry shouted to Tom as soon as he neared.

Tom slowed with a turn, bringing the mare to a halt at a short distance from Harry. “Harry. Come closer.”

Harry licked his lips nervously but did as told anyway and soon was inhaling the pungent odour of horse. Tom gazed down at him. His brown eyes were warm and inviting, but his face was guarded. The meeting of brown and green felt natural. If he stole a glance downwards, he’d see Tom’s lips. Harry’s chest tightened.

“You’re good,” Harry said.

Tom smirked. His dimples appeared. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair, pushing it back, and Harry followed the motion with his stare.

“I make it a habit to be good in most fields,” Tom said.

Harry smiled. “But not languages?”

“Not languages,” Tom agreed. “That’s your talent.” He paused. “Do you want to ride her?”

Tom patted the mane of the mare. She blew air in response, glancing to Harry. Harry reached out tentatively and was rewarded with a sniff at his hands. The cowboy watched but grew bored so he slipped off the saddle. Through the horse’s tang, Harry caught a whiff of a Tom’s scent. It smelled comforting, pleasant.

Harry coughed. “Yes. I know how to ride. It’s been a while though.”

“Not a skill one forgets. I’d like to ride with you, Harry.”

He stepped back, letting Harry approach the saddle. Tom was only a few strides away in case something went wrong. But he wasn’t very close either. Tom’s eyes peered directly in Harry’s being. They waited, expecting nothing.

Harry gripped the saddle and vaulted himself onto the seat. The height was exciting. A high washed over Harry. The weight of the reins in his hands made everything in his surroundings feel corporeal, attainable. He gave the mare’s flank a kick.

* * *

That night, Malfoy Manor lay in a deep silence. Some of its residents were resting: Abraxas, Narcissa, Harry, Lucius’ interpreter, and the many bots.

Draco was awake, working on the latest document he’d found about Gryffindor at Tom’s request and was splitting hairs over its translation. Tom was not with Draco but he was working on Gryffindor too, in his own room, across the manor.

Lucius Malfoy started the afternoon in the comfort of his room and did not leave it even when dinner had been called. Narcissa had knocked once but his angry voice shooed her away. She’d decided to sleep in another bedroom that night. Only after midnight did the Senator leave his room. He went to the kitchens for a desperate snack and was last seen on the cameras gorging down a sandwich.

In the morning after, Lucius Malfoy’s dead body was found stuffed in the opulent bed occupying most of his room. Blood had stained the silk sheets and darkened to a deep burgundy by the time Skippy rolled in to deliver breakfast. Someone had tucked him under the sheets, as one would a child, but the massive kitchen knife sticking out of his throat shattered the peaceful position. His face was suspended in horror.

Senator Lucius Malfoy was dead. And with his death, came Grindelwald’s Council.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly made them kiss but I found the tension too fun to resolve. Loved all the comments! As of late, I've been a bit out of the Harrymort fandom recently and binge-watching Hannibal.
> 
> Next up: investigations into Senator Malfoy's murder start.


End file.
